


Into the Old Falcon

by Salamon2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Breaking the Fourth Wall, Building a Better Westeros, Drama, F/M, Gen, Intrigue, Multi, Satire, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2018-06-01
Packaged: 2018-09-11 07:45:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 48,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8970154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: On the eve of Lysa's giving birth to the next Lord Arryn, Jon Arryn awakes to discover that he's not just Jon Arryn anymore, but instead has had his mind merged with, Seven help him, an ASOIAF geek.Salamon2 has been inserted into Jon Arryn's head in the year 292 AC. Will he be able to "build a better Westeros" as the logic of Self-Insert stories demands (with of course copious amount of details given to the how-to aspect of construction and innovation), all while preventing the events from A Game of Thrones from occurring? Or will his genre savvy self and love of literary criticism by Northrop Frye doom him to instead satirize the genre of self-insert stories? The latter is the answer, oh most definitely the latter.





	1. Insertion

**Author's Note:**

> I should note that from the outset that a Self-Insert story is a tradition at the forums on Alternate History (dot) com of having the author insert themselves inside the mind of a character from the universe (either completely wiping away the character entirely or merging with that character) and then proceeding to write a story from the perspective of themselves within that universe.
> 
> This story is a satire of that style of storytelling on Alternate History (dot) com and lovingly tweaking the nose at the various tropes and tendencies of Self-Insert stories that have developed over time, most especially when it comes to Self-Insert stories set in Westeros. Westeros Self-Insert stories tend to be focused on "Building a Better Westeros" and namely operate by the same logic and outline of the Mark Twain story: "A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court". That said, sit back and enjoy.

**Into the Old Falcon: A Satirical Self-Insert Story**

_Chapter One: Insertion_

 

  
I awoke in pitch darkness--not something I wasn't used to given that in order to get to the crappy retail job, I had to get up at three in the morning to get to work by five, so waking up in complete darkness was nothing new. The pounding on the door however was.  
  
"M'lord!" shouted a woman's voice from the other side of a door.  
  
_I'm not a lord. It's a dream, I am in a dream. Must mean I'm close to waking up. Dang and it felt like I'd just fallen asleep too. Come back unending darkness of the unconscious--I miss you._  
  
The pounding continued. Fine, I'll get up. Might as well find some inspiration for a story or a one shot while I'm dreaming, a lot of good plots come to me when I'm dreaming.  
  
"What?" I called. I rose and stumbled to the door which was pounding like one of the various migraines I got every once in a blue moon.  
  
I unlatched the door almost unconsciously--as though I knew where the latches were without having to be told in this darkness. It struck me as odd later, but I had been too tired to think of that in the moment.  
  
Behind the door stood a woman holding an oil lamp for light.  
  
"The midwife sent me, m'lord. The Lady Lysa has delivered a boy." She spoke brokenly and rustically, but the girl, whom for some reason my mind recognized as Brigit, was understandable. I had a son. Definitely a dream--I can see clearly without glasses, that was only true in my dreams.  
  
I'd always wanted to be a father. Hadn't found the right girl yet or married, but then I was working a crappy job that had me up at 3 AM, not much of a catch now was I? Perhaps this dream would ditch the pseudo Game of Thrones look and simply morph into a dream about parenting? Boring, but then we can't always dream about running away from a mass zombie apocalypse beating down the doors and trying to get me, while I make plans to shoot 'em up and hot foot it for the nearest steam locomotive to safety every time, now can I?  
  
"Thank you, Brigit. I shall come anon."  
  
Brigit looked at me funny for a moment before saying.  
  
"Forgive me for saying this, m'lord but you... you look different, m'lord."  
  
"Different, how?"  
  
"It's not my place to be saying."  
  
_Gods what a cop out answer. I'm glad I'm not writing this down because that filler of a dialogue line belongs in the trash like most of Season Six--just get to the fucking point!_  
  
Sternly I reproached, "You've made it your place, now say it."  
  
Brigit looked even more embarrassed, but she thankfully got to the point.  
  
"Forgive me, m'lord, but have you dyed your hair this eve? Because the color has come back in."  
  
"What do you mean come back in?" I asked--though it sounded almost as though I were bellowing at the poor girl.  
  
"I only meant that, it's no longer white, my lord. Your blonde, it's returned."  
  
And with that said, Brigit made her excuses and hurried away from the door, taking the lamp with her, and now leaving me in blinding darkness.  
  
Was I supposed to be an old man in my dream originally and then I switched things unconsciously when I heard that I had a son? A mirror. I needed a mirror, and a light. I stumbled around in the darkness, stubbing my toe as I did so--which hurt, but physical pain was something that I was used to ignoring--something I don't know where I inherited it from given how sensitive my parents had been to the slightest pains, but had always been true for me. At last I found a table with a wax candle. I picked it up and walked over to the dying embers of the fireplace which was decorated with little orange lines of light in the darkened embers. Thankfully one of the embers still had enough of a flare to it to light the candle, which helped illuminate the portion of the room near myself. As my eyes adjusted to the light I saw the mirror and I approached it, only to be shocked by what I saw.  
  
There, stood a middle-aged man in his late forties or early fifties I estimated, with a head full of blond hair mixed with grey and an accompanying beard as well. He was a solidly-built middle-aged man with a slight belly, but nothing to call excessively fat. The rest of him seemed tight from a lifetime of better physical diligence than I could regularly commit to in my waking life. He was dressed in a night gown that had embroidered on it a flying blue falcon with a white moon for a background. I recognized that sigil immediately. I was Lord Arryn. My realization was quickly backed up by a flood of memories that hit me far too fast to process and that caused a migraine to hit as I felt my brain assimilate this necessary exposition. It was almost as if I was stuck in a crossover between a self-insert stories at AH.com, _Game of Thrones_ , and what I imagined the guy in _The Butterfly Effect_ felt every time he changed history.  
  
I was broken from the pain--which went as suddenly as it came, odd for a migraine--when a bit of hot wax singed my hand, causing me to drop the candle.  
  
I was Lord Jon Arryn. The year was 292. I was married to Lady Lysa Tully, now Arryn, and I was the Hand of the King, and King in all but name with the way Robert viewed ruling. I was born in 219 AC and should be turning 73 this year, but instead I was now somehow middle-aged looking how I supposedly did when I was 48 or so if Jon's-my memories were telling me truly. And if that wax burn was any proof--this was most certainly not a dream.  
  
_Oh shit... I've been sent into a Self-Insert story. No. Stop writing me, where ever I am. I don't want to be stuck in Westeros!_  
  
Or do I?  
  
I mean, stop and think about it. 2016 was a crappy year to be alive--if it wasn't my 73 year old father's health acting up and needing to be tended to, the crappy job market, the house issues, my cousins' drama, dealing with a crappy work environment and being the only one to give a damn at my job, the bout with Cat Scratch Disease I started the year off with, my pets dying, the whole election debacle, and on top of that knowing that the Fourth Turning was due for another 7 - 10 more years of shittiness (and only likely to increase in shittiness given the nature of Fourth Turnings and the echoes to the Civil War and Glorious Revolution saeculums going on) along with an economic cycle due to end within the next four years with another recession (at minimum) due at any moment in the upcoming four years, then yeah, this was just about the perfect way to end 2016--completely losing my old life. And you know what--considering where that old life was going, why not? Why not trade that in for living in a shitty world? At least I know what I'm getting here... to some degree. That's likely not going to remain true for long.  
  
It won't be so bad. At least I won't have to satisfy any readers' expectations of how to react to a Self-Insert story... or maybe I do? Ehh, don't think about that. I don't want to even consider thinking about them hovering over me every time I visit a chamber pot. But if that's so, shouldn't I be crying right about now about how I'm never going to see my family again? Every self-insert story practically starts with an ode to one's family and friends left behind in reality, or the self-insert being so mopey as to only be worth skimming the emotional melodrama that will have very little impact on the rest of the story. Why don't I feel this way? I mean, I'll miss my family and my friends, sure... but throwing a big old temper tantrum and going "oh woe is me" seems kinda pointless after you've lost your mother eight years ago... well, eight years ago in my old life. I mean, yeah, you're going to feel sad and depressed--but that was just the status quo. It'll hit you from time to time and completely paralyze you when it does, but then life continues, like it always does.  
  
All while I had been thinking this, my body had seemed to have been acting on muscle memory to get dressed--or maybe old Jon Arryn was still in charge of half the brain my consciousness now occupied, like the silent half that can't communicate its wants because the parts that govern speaking are in the other half of the brain. You know, like in that YouTube video that CGP Grey did that talked about epileptic patients with the nerves between the two halves of the brains experiencing split-brain syndrome or whatever it was called? Perhaps that was just what happened in most Self-Inserts? The personality of the person who was inserted got control of the speaking-half of the brain, while the original person remained sectioned off in the half the brain that doesn't talk, but is a silent partner we all walk around with. That at least would be the logical answer.  
  
I ended my thoughts with the realization that I was now dressed presentably well to travel the Red Keep and see my wife and newborn son. There was an emotion swelling up now--here comes the grief--it's... joy? Joy that at long last Jon--I shall be a father, and that was worth being happy for. Sadness could wait in the light of having waited for so long to have a son.  
  
As I walked down the halls I soon began to realize that I didn't know where I was going, and yet I did at the same time. I arrived to be greeted to the sight of Lysa nursing our son at her breast, looking exhausted. She did a double take upon seeing me.  
  
"J-Jon?" she asked questioningly.  
  
"We'll speak later, Lysa, after you've recovered. Right now... I" don't say uh. "I want to see our son."  
  
Lysa nodded clearly confused, but too tired to argue. She handed me a fussy babe who looked so small and weak. I was struck speechless as I held the babe in my arms. My son... I was holding my son."  
  
"He awaits a name, lord husband," said Lysa rather formally. This did not seem to contradict the memories I had--if anything her outburst of Jon was more remarkable than referring to me as "lord husband".  
  
Holding the baby and seeing how weak he was I knew what name he was supposed to have--Robert. Jon's way of honoring the King, inspiring the boy, and further probes into Jon's memories confirmed that it was also Jon's way of inspiring Robert to look after the boy and be a father to him with Jon having resigned to likely dying before he was a man grown. But with my new health that wasn't a worry I should have.  
  
"Jasper. His name is Jasper, after my father."  
  
If I'm in a self-insert story, butterflies are already flapping as it is--Jon's sudden loss of age was proof enough of that, why not make another one as well?  
  
Saying Jasper's name seemed to change the air in the room, it suddenly went from heavy and oppressive, to feeling rather lighter and airier. I was most definitely imagining things as air surely couldn't change that quickly without central air. I looked at Lysa who seemed to have guessed that Jon would have done that. Hmm... mayhaps I should throw a monkey wrench in there as a sign of things to come?  
  
I announced, "Jasper Brynden Arryn."  
  
"Brynden?" questioned Lysa.  
  
"After your uncle and in honor of you and your family. Brynden's been good to you and a loyal man besides."  
  
And if I don't survive the game of thrones, he'll make damn sure Jasper Brynden Arryn will. Far more than Robert half-hearted did.  
  
Lysa looked rather speechless for a moment, unsure of how to respond.  
  
"But two names?" questioned Lysa when she had at last found her voice.  
  
So middle names weren't a tradition in Westeros? For some reason I thought they had been a thing with the Targaryens. No matter, I said, "We'll make a new tradition of it. And until it becomes popular he'll be a special boy, the only one with a first and middle name."  
  
Lysa, who seemed on the verge of falling asleep, echoed, "A special boy... that he is."  
  
Having held my son long enough, I placed Jasper back into Lysa's arms, causing her to smile.  
  
As I turned to leave the room she spoke. "Jon."  
  
I turned around.  
  
"I know not what has happened to you... mayhaps the Seven have heard my prayers... mayhaps I am only dreaming, but I wanted to say..." she was searching for her words--as if she were now forced to improvise.  
  
"Yes?" I asked when the silence had gone on long enough between us.  
  
"Thank you, for the honor to mine Uncle... and my family. You didn't have to do that."  
  
"No, but I wanted to."  
  
And so I left a bewildered but tired Lysa, no doubt thinking that this was all a dream.  
  
Perhaps it wasn't too late to prove that theory right for myself?


	2. Plans & Acceptance

**Into the Old Falcon: A Satirical Self-Insert,**  


_Chapter 2: Plans and Acceptance_

  
All right so I’m actually here. For real. Isn’t this about the time that I’m supposed to panic and if I didn’t freak out before, I should be neurotically worried now? I’ve changed things… I’ve caused butterflies to begin flapping their wings—what hurricane will result from such? Gods help me and the power I’ve unleashed upon this world!

  
Well, at least I won’t have to suffer the name Sweetrobin in the story anymore. And if I have anything to say about it, that little falconet is going to be surrounded by little siblings, at the very least two more, if not three. Security in this world was in having a healthy amount of a family. Which means actually sleeping with Lysa… well, it’s what it is. She’s your wife now and deserves your respect, and in this setting your protection. And that means getting her away from being influenced by Littlefinger… so be it.  
  
Thinking through Jon’s--my memories, Littlefinger was still the customs officer of Gulltown. He was bringing in an immeasurable amount of wealth into the city by means that far outstripped his predecessors, which had drawn Jon’s attentions to the man, but he had only received the position seven years ago not long after Petyr had come of age and gone begging to Lysa for a better position in life than being the heir to a landed knight with poor land—well, he hadn’t actually gone begging, but the wining and dining he had done so soon after the loss of her first pregnancy had surely helped. His father interestingly enough was still alive—though reports of the old fighter and fellow veteran of the Ninepenny War being “sick” had reached Jon from Nestor Royce, who had reported that Ser Baelish of the Little Finger had failed to arrive at this past year’s Harvest Festival and had sent a rider with word that he was feeling rather unwell of late. Something to keep a tab on.  
  
In any case, where was I before I went off on one of my tangents that I have a bad habit of going off on? Oh yes, Lysa! Lysa was going through her second pregnancy when she had asked Jon about the potential appointment for Petyr, had obliged her to receive a gift of putting “poor Petyr” in charge of the customs house at Gulltown as an easy way to placating his moody young bride who had been so distraught after that first miscarriage. It seemed therefore logical to consider that Littlefinger only gained his Master of Coin position by Lysa delivering a son and heir to House Arryn, and “self-styled” himself as “Lord” Baelish only after the appointment. That made the most amount of sense, Jon would have been in a mood to show affection to his young wife, and Littlefinger would have proven diligent in the seven years in between coming of age and Sweetrobin’s birth that rewarding him with the position simply would have seemed natural to Jon—especially with the way Robert had been throwing lavish tourneys and giving gold away.

 

What?!

 

Yes, the more I searched Jon—my memories about this, the more it seemed Robert early on as his career as King had been eager to be well-liked and to earn the loyalty of the Kingdom. Whenever he had been in control of meeting with the smallfolk or merchants and traders who had grievances, Robert had often—in lack of knowing what else to do and eager to seem the jovial and benevolent King, simply thrown money at the problem or handed out a few coins here or a few coins there. A smallfolk had once left with an entire handful of dragons for a neighbor having filched a small part of their flock of goats. The entire treasury hadn’t been depleted, yet, but it was well on its way to being so.

 

They had also taken on a few loans from the Faith and House Lannister—not the Iron Bank just yet, and if I had anything to do with that, we wouldn’t dare do so. The loan from the Lannisters specifically going into the repairs and reparations of King’s Landing and a bit of the Red Keep that he had damaged during the Sack.

 

Jon—I had been crafty it seemed, and didn’t ask the Lannisters for any more money than simply what it cost to cover the repairs to the city that the Lannisters themselves had sacked. That made sense to some degree, and that way, as the tax revenues from the city recovered, the investments in the city could theoretically pay for the loan taken out on Tywin Lannister over time. Payments on that loan would come from the treasury at first but wane off of the crown’s funds as the tax revenue coming in recovered. Jon—I could say that Tywin Lannister had sacked the capital and reaped its benefits—and now he had to pay for that very city and that he would be paid back that loan to the city itself. Crafty, very crafty. It also ensured that the Lannisters would have an interest in protecting the city and its wealth from future threats, because now the fortunes of the Lannisters were tied to the well-being of King’s Landing. No wonder it became so overflowing with Red Cloaks before A Game of Thrones when Tywin would normally ignore Cersei’s orders in A Clash of Kings. They were there to protect the city for Tywin as much as his bloodline. And no wonder Tywin moved as fast as he did to secure the city in A Clash of Kings—not only was his grandson’s throne and family reputation on the line, if Stannis sacked the city, he’d be out the money he’d loaned entirely.

 

The Faith funds had been more of a way to tie the interests of the Faith to the interests and security of the new regime—after all, should the regime fail, they would fail to get their money back. The funds themselves had originally been intended to simply be used as a rainy day fund to fall back upon and cover costs while the Crownlands recovered from the Rebellion and cover the costs of various armies draining the Crownlands’ supplies. Thus essentially a tax break had been afforded to the Crownlands lords while they “recovered” from the Rebellion—a tax break that was due to end in the coming year—but Robert seeing that there was more money to spend, felt obligated to “spread the wealth” wherever he went.

 

Spendthrift was Robert’s middle name. And while injecting money into the local economy wasn’t a bad thing—especially after a war—the Faith’s gold had been frivolously spent on redecorating the throne room, the Red Keep, and other investitures that after the purchase of which didn’t proceed to bring more revenue back into the coffers of the King through taxes, tolls, and tariffs. While I wasn’t a brilliant economics mind by any means, I recognized from having lived through the Great Recession that continuing one economic policy and strictly adhering to it religiously was a recipe for disaster. Instead a healthier approach would be to recognize when it was necessary to switch approaches and constantly tweak what was happening as different situations called for different approaches—because any one solution applied for forever led to some kind of extreme economic situation, be it depression, recession, or a bubble, the trick was simply knowing when to switch gears and when to leave things lie—and also accepting that often you’re going to overshoot or miss when it’s time to pull which lever.

 

Jon—I was worried that the revenues coming in from the city weren’t growing fast enough to help keep more money from the treasury being spent on paying off Tywin than he had planned for. I was also concerned with how several lords in anticipation of the coming end to their tax relief had begun arguing how levies from the Greyjoy rebellion required equal amount of time to recover from, which of course would only cost the crown even more if they couldn’t build up their revenue. That’s what had made Petyr so appealing to Jon—me: that he could rub two coins together and produce a third magically out of thin air. Given what I knew from the books, and what little I remembered from my high school economics class I had trouble remembering due to several months of depression that year, but also the clerical job I worked for a while, I knew that that was likely impossible without a lot of crooked behavior, borrowing, and moving figures around on a spreadsheet to get them what you wanted them to say, rather than expressing the truth of your transactions.  
  
There was just so much to remember I felt exhausted thinking about it. And given that I was now in a self-insert story of some kind, I likely had some kind of obligation to make Westeros a “better place” to live than what I’d found it—a Connecticut Yankee story if you were. I’m sure 010010 is “thrilled” about the competition from SI stories. The only problem was I’m not from Connecticut, and Yankees are what other Northerners used to call people from Connecticut in the first place—until Twain decided to be redundant in his description of his character. In any case, going Connecticut on Westeros wasn’t my style, and I wasn’t the engineer that half the people on AH.com seem to become once the mere mention of a canal was made in a thread. Mayhaps I should promise to lay out plans for many canals? That might boost interest in the story, but then again, I’d have to rely on what knowledge is available to me here as my father was an Engineer—not me. So I seem to be the wrong sort of person to be self-inserted. What could I offer this theoretical audience I have reading, but at the same time bring to Westeros to make my own continued existence here more bearable?  
  
Hmm… I could theoretically plant the seeds and tend to the garden in preparation for the transition of Westeros to something a bit more Early Renaissance-like than Late Medieval—to prepare the minds of the Westerosi for a revolution of the mind. I could change their way of thinking, and in so inspire them to discover for themselves innovations. After all, change only stuck when it came from the bottom up from within its own population. You couldn’t just dictate from the top down what a society should do in order to be “civilized”—that was part of the lesson of Dany’s plot after all, as well as the real life lessons of Philip IV of France, Edward III of England, Iraq and Afghanistan, etc.—change like that could be easily undone when you disappear or die suddenly. Sure it’s a power fantasy, to think that you—little old you can bring change. And so some degree it’s possible…and yet is it a change that lasts? A Connecticut Yankee may introduce new technology, but what good is that technology if after they die their “family” hoards all that information—or if the Citadel files it away in their library and keeps it for “study” without proliferating it. But ideas—yes, ideas were the powder kegs of society and what brought real change to it—especially when ideas were shared. The internet, printing press, and the written language were evidence enough of that. And technologies that could spread ideas were worth their weight in gold and helpful in revolutionizing everything.  
  
First order of business—a printing press. Then after that, we start getting the Septs interested in getting the young smallfolk a basic education separate from the Citadel. Sell it to the Sept that they can then read the Seven Pointed Star and become more holy (should I worry about a potential Reformation? Well the Sparrow movement was going to happen anyway). And if they’re worried about heretics you could say that them knowing how to read would therefore bring a greater uniformity to the Septries, Septs, Septons, and Septas throughout the land, with less chance of deviations that are seen now. Then the Printing Press can be used for making more copies of the Seven Pointed Star in the beginning—and then other ideas as well.

 

I didn’t need to reinvent the wheel or any other such thing, all I had to do was lay the groundwork for a Westerosi Renaissance and let the butterflies flap from there. Another thing was to start looking into passing reforms Henry VII passed in England and Philip IV passed in France. Centralize and unify the realm to the crown, weaken the power of the Lords Paramount—but I must do this without looking like I’m doing so. That way private wars like what happened at the end of A Game of Thrones will be unlikely to turn into full out Wars of the Roses style conflicts. And while doing so, create something of a national identity while I’m at it? Mayhaps give the Lords a regularly meeting Grand Council where the Lords of the Realm pass laws like a Parliament? Allow them the ability to create laws that hold throughout the realms with the King holding the power to approve or disapprove of the laws they make if he finds them to be fair or not. Charge the King with the power to enforce the laws, and pretty soon you have the beginnings of a King and Parliament. And in exchange for deciding on the laws of the realm, the lords would have to give up arming levies in the heraldry of their own personal houses—but instead should carry the King’s banner and swear a fealty to the King.

 

Another thing that was needed was that a Westerosi Renaissance was going to require a lot of gold and money flowing in to its society to spread the wealth around (rather than just spreading around our own wealth to the detriment of our treasury). It’s not surprising that the Renaissance began so soon after Italian merchants began trading again with Muslim countries after the last Crusades ended in order to get goods from China and the Indian Ocean Trade Network they were the guardians of. This was going to require working with someone who had a better understanding of Mercantilism than I did—and that would mean I’d have to find some merchant or merchant family to reach out to and help use to foster trade and—

 

“Gods help me Pycelle that did hurt!” I shouted as Pycelle finished his examination that I’d been daydreaming and planning through. When I had awoken, I’d found Brigit along with my squire, Mandon Moore—who was eagerly hoping to don a white cloak soon—and my steward Erasmys Lynderly—a cousin on my mother’s side, standing over me and discussing my “change” as it was being called. My youthening was a serious concern to the Westerosi, who’d never seen anything like it. And I hadn’t just stopped at 48 either, when I’d woken up again, I’d looked closer to 44 than the 48 I’d been the night before. Pycelle was called in to examine me and determine the cause—and no doubt decree whether or not I was an imposter or some unknown bastard son who’d taken Jon’s place—of my rejuvenation.

 

“My apologies, Lord Arryn, but I had to be sure that the old wound you had from the Ninepenny War still had feeling—you said that it had been becoming numb of late, and I figured that I’d see if this event had changed that at all,” answered Pycelle.

 

 _Sure, and you wanted to make sure that it wasn’t just painted on too._ Still, I checked my memories and Jon—I had indeed said something of the sort about his old wounds feeling numb, so I let what he said pass, for the nonce.

 

“Well, now it feels sore and sensitive,” I complained.

 

“Almost as if you’d received it a few years or so ago, instead of a few decades?” asked Pycelle.

 

“That’s one way of putting it,” I grumbled. I hated being poked and prodded by doctors at home, and Pycelle’s examination was no improvement on them.

 

“Well, then that confirms my suspicions, you’ve rejuvenated somehow to the body you had shortly after the Ninepenny War’s completion… but how this occurred, I cannot say. I shall have to write to the Citadel and see what the Archmaesters have to say—they may want you to visit the Citadel yourself.”

 

_And be locked up in order to try and find whatever elixir of life I used? No thanks. I’d seen far too many late 1970s/early 1980s films about science gone awry to trust even the most elementary of their orders like the Citadel, blindly._

 

“If the wise Archmaesters are so concerned for my health, they can make the journey themselves to King’s Landing.” I said testily, hoping the ordeal would be over soon.

_Erasmys, godsdamnit, walk through that door and interfere already!_

 

Pycelle luckily stood up and withdrew from his examination, “With your permission, I shall inform them of that very thing, Lord Arryn. We might even see them before the year is out!”

 

And then an idea struck me, “And if they could bring with them some selected texts from the Citadel concerning various subjects—discourses by past archmaesters on trade, religion, architecture, philosophy, and even ancient history, that would make the examination far more pleasant.”

 

“Discourses, my Lord?” questioned Pycelle, forgetting to add a wheeze to maintain the illusion of his feebleness.

 

Dryly I explained, “Books where they try and prove an opinion that they have.”

 

“Such materials are at the Citadel, and would be available if you were to travel there,” proffered Pycelle. The man really wants me out of the city, likely to get Tywin into it. I definitely should not make any plans to leave soon, given that. Elsewise the man might try to have me replaced by Tywin. I was going to need an explanation for the rejuvenation that could be accepted by the rest of the court—and quickly. If I let that get out of my control, I was going to soon be questioned about being the “real” Jon Arryn.

 

“Yes, well, the realm isn’t going to rule itself from Oldtown, so they would be obliged to arrive here if they wish to examine me. I would be particularly interested in speaking with Gormon. If he could be made sure to be among the party.” Leave that threat there for Pycelle—get him worried that what I’m actually interested in is in seeing him replaced.

 

That did prick Pycelle’s attention, “Gormon?! Why Gormon? He’s only recently been made an Archmaester!”

 

_Hmm, the Tyrell is younger than A Clash for Kings seemed to hint at._

 

Calmly I answered, “I have heard a few promising things of him from my own sources in the city, and I would like to speak with him, privately on his areas of study.”

 

_I better watch my food now. And drink._

 

“A single Archmaester is always required to stay at the Citadel if a party of Archmaesters ever leaves… Gormon might be chosen to be that Archmaester, being that he is so young and has so short a chain.”

 

_Stop shifting your chain around, Pycelle, yes I see how long it is, and no I don’t care. You’re in for Tywin and Cersei, and you’ll have to go soon or late, especially after that examination._

 

“I would think Old Archmaester Walgrave would be the one to stay at the Citadel, given the recent state of his health,” I piqued.

 

That only caused all the color to drain from Pycelle’s face. If he didn’t think I was thinking of replacing him before, now that I had proven I had been looking into different Archmaesters, he would surely have very little room for doubt. Good. Mayhaps he might start doing something better.

 

Pycelle dropped the act of his haunched shoulders, “Lord Arryn, we’re of an age, are we not? To be sure you’ve regained some of your years in this miracle—mayhaps the Seven’s gift to your son and family—but overall, we both remember Aegon V’s troubled reign and what came before him, do we not? Or at least, _I_ remember Lord Bloodraven.”

 

_Off come the velvet gloves, then. And I need his approval to be deemed “Jon Arryn”. Fuck. I shouldn’t have mentioned Gormon. There’s only one way I’m going to get out of this…_

BAM.

_Finally Erasmys, your timing is long past—_

I was never so happy to hear my door burst open. In stepped Robert Baratheon.

 

_My Rex ex Machina._

 

“Where are ya, Jon? The Small Council is supposed to be meeting to plan a tourney in honor of your son Jasper, and what are you doing in bed?” shouted Robert as he entered my chambers. He then stopped when he got a good look at me, the mix of shock and recognition was at both relieving and nerve racking.

 

“Gods be damned, you look… young! Just like you did when I first arrived at the Eyrie!”

 

_Not exactly that age, but close enough. Well, now I don’t need Pycelle’s confirmation._

 

“Indeed, I awoke early this morning to find this to be the case and have been troubled by this discovery as much as Pycelle has. He was just finishing my examination and we were discussing how the Archmaesters of the Citadel might be convinced to come up from Oldtown for further examination as well as an examination of some of the more… magical tomes, to see if such a case has ever happened before.”

 

Pycelle shrank into himself almost immediately at the sound of his name. He simpered and wheezed, “It would of course be more beneficial if Lord Arryn were to travel to Oldtown,” Pycelle tried to interject meekly, but my memories about Robert flooded me at that moment, conveniently enough for the exposition.

 

Robert saw Jon as a second father, and while they might have their quarrels, he also knew that Robert listened to Jon and his advice more than any other person alive. An enviable position to be in, compared to other self-insert stories looking to make changes to Westeros from say someone far further down the pecking order like Arya or Theon. And Robert seeing the father he’d known restored to health and vitality, on the eve of his becoming a father of his own, well, that was going to have a tremendous effect on Robert—and possibly Ned if I ever managed to journey North. I should likely come up with an excuse to show Jasper off to his Aunt Catelyn, after a few moons, mayhaps in honor of his first nameday? Aye.

 

“Oh bugger that!” pronounced Robert, like I knew he would.

 

“You were saying that you wanted to hold a tourney, your grace?” I asked. Jon—I was always one to stand on ceremony in terms of Robert—simply to set an example in front of other Small Council members and instill the necessary deference in them to be given to Robert, though he’d let the guard down when he was alone, my memories told me.

 

Robert laughed, “Still with the title? I’d have thought knocking a few years off you would’ve loosened you up, you old bird.”

 

I joined his laugh, “We’ll see about that. I’d actually like to speak with you about getting back to fighting shape.”

 

 _Two birds, one stone._ While Robert wasn’t as fat as he was described in _A Game of Thrones_ , or as big as Mark Addy had been, he was still developing something of a gut that Jon had noted, and was a bit “meatier” around his thighs and hips. Robert had ripped out the girth of his breeches not a few weeks ago while climbing the Iron Throne. While he wasn’t a fat stag ready for the kill just yet, he wasn’t in his prime condition by any means, either.

 

“Need a bit of a challenge, old man?” questioned Robert jovially.

 

“Aye. It’s been years since I’ve had a real go at the practice yard. And besides I have a son to prepare to teach,” I added.

 

I felt like an idiot laying it out thick—but if I played my cards right, I could get more access to Westerosi world knowledge already known unlike any Self-Insert before me, and secure my position in the court through Robert, then so be it.

 

Just then Erasmys entered my chambers.

 

“Gods be good, you look out of breath, man!” exclaimed Robert.

 

My steward, who was a man now close in age to myself looked as though he’d been running up and down steps for a good quarter of an hour, “Grandmaester… a letter arrived for you from the Citadel… I was told to give it to you... immediately… and another from the Vale for you, my lord.”

 

_What unexpected plot twist could this bring? Nothing good most likely._

 

“You received these letters from Raemon?” asked Pycelle as he shook his hand to take the letters from Erasmys.

 

“The guards wouldn’t allow him into the Tower, per the King’s Orders.”

 

“Gods be good, I only said that I didn’t want to be disturbed, not that the bloody tower should be quarantined,” thundered Robert.

 

“My men are loyal and true,” I added as Pycelle opened the letter from the Citadel first.

 

Pycelle summarized in astonishment, “It seems that you are not alone in your sudden rejuvenation, Lord Arryn.” Pycelle made sure to cough then, and added “Archmaester Walgrave awoke a few nights ago with his wits about him for the first time in many moons, and has been regaining the color in his hair.”

 

I took the letter from the Vale myself and was at first astounded at the flowing script—it looked as though a woman had written it before I banished such thoughts from my head, only to be proven right by the signature: Lady Jocelyn Royce. Lady Jocelyn… Lady Jocelyn… ahh yes, Nestor’s granddame. What was she doing writing me?

 

The point became obviously clear as I read the script, which seemed to improve the further down the page it went, as though Lady Jocelyn had started out unable to control her quill but had successively been able to do so as she continued.

 

“Well, Jon?” demanded Robert.

 

“It seems Archmaester Walgrave and myself are not alone… Lady Jocelyn Royce has been experiencing a similar result in the Vale.”

 

_Fuck. Does this mean that they were other Self-Inserts who have arrived as well?_

 

Brigit entered then.

 

“Your grace! My lord… grandmaester, you must come quickly, it’s Lady Arryn! She’s taken a fever!”

 

Unconcerned about the state of dress I was in considering my clothes all hung off of me to some degree as I’d continue to lose weight, I ignored the fact I was rushing out of my chambers without my doublet.

 

Pycelle took his godsbedamned time about following after, while I rushed. All my plans in the Vale depended upon securing it with younger brothers and sisters for Jasper, if Lysa died now… I’d live forever on a knife’s edge here, and potentially a civil war after I died.

 

_Don’t die, Lysa, don’t die!_

 

When we entered the room, Lysa was clearly in the throes of childbed fever, and almost mockingly perched on the edge of the post of the bed was a butterfly, flapping its wings.

 

_Fuck._


	3. A Surreal Integration

_**Chaper 3: A Surreal Integration** _

  
  
  
Varys began when they had all seated. I was thankful for the seat after the exertion in the yard. All of Jon’s—my instincts were there, the knowledge and skill to wield weapons—but it felt as though I were trying to use muscles grown unaccustomed to working. Like a rusty squeezebox I needed more training, but I was glad for the meeting to give me some respite. Stannis was absent, given that it was the one time of the year he slept with his wife on Dragonstone, and Renly had yet to be named Master of Laws. Ser Barristan had been off his duty of protecting the King—doing whatever it was he did during his spare time. The Kingsguard on duty was outside the chamber, though if it had been Ser Barristan, he would have sat at the weirwood table along with the rest of the council.  
  
  
  
“My little birds do whisper in my ear of several incidents of men and women receiving this “blessed miracle” of an age reversal across the Seven Kingdoms.”  
  
  
  
“So it’s not just Jon then?” questioned Robert, attending a meeting for the first time in a long time as Jon—I did not have the heart to lead the small council this day. Lysa was now dead after clinging to life for nearly a fortnight, and memories were flooding me of my two previous wives deaths—one of which had been in the birthing bed in an attempt at getting an heir. My mood though had not soured from Lysa’s demise. While Jon—I had developed some affection for her over the last nine years, it wasn’t enough to truly miss her now that she had died. Her death had prompted a rather horrid reminder of Jeyne’s death all those years ago, when our daughter came into the world unable to take her first breath, and Jeyne had uttered her last the next moment. That had been almost a blessing in disguise as Jon—I recalled how Jeyne had been a rather bossy woman, and rather fond of her family’s First Men traditions. She had attempted in vain to grow a weirwood in the garden at the Eyrie, and had been the one to dismiss the Septon—that he hadn’t objected to, given he wasn’t too faithful a man. She had ruffled the feathers of his more Andal-loyal bannermen and knights who often referred to her as the Bulleted Bitch. A name that Jon—I had heard, and said nothing in her defense when hearing servants mock her behind her back. Why? Why would Jon—I be so callow?  
  
  
  
Oh yes… because Jon—I was little more than a boy in maturity if not body and Rowena had coined the name. Rowena, my cousin who had been my second wife and first love. We had grown together in the Eyrie with her brother—Denys’ father… Edmun! After Rowena’s father… Elfryd, good old Uncle Elfryd... had died fighting in one of the many rebellions of King Aegon’s reign. Rowena had stolen Jon’s—my heart then as they had scampered about the Eyrie, finding all its secret nooks and hidden alcoves—their secret places. Usually Edmun would follow behind, but more often we pretended he wasn’t there. When Jon—I had been near a man’s age, I had wanted to marry her, but father… aye, father had interfered. Father had said that it was time to look outside of the ever narrowing lines of Andal houses, and to intermarry with First Men for the first time in… generations if not since the conquest of the Vale. As such Jeyne Royce would be his wife, not cousin Rowena, and for that Jon—I had disliked her. It had been a petty mean reason to dislike her, something I had regretted and thought on later as my marriage to Rowena had slowly unraveled over the years. To be sure, to her face I never dishonored Jeyne or allowed her to be shamed, but privately… when no one was around, I would let Rowena wag her tongue, and the rest of the Gates of the Moon and the Eyrie had followed suit. And later, much later when Rowena had become sullen and mean-spirited, even to myself, when she found herself unable to give us children, Jon—I had seen that the Rowena of my life for what she had been, and concluded that Jeyne hadn’t deserved such as she had endured. That Jon—I had been cruel to her, and that was why I had been without a son of my own… until now.  
  
  
  
“Lord Arryn?” questioned a voice, breaking me from my memories.  
  
  
  
“Aye?” I asked.  
  
  
  
Robert interjected, “What do you think of the pattern?”  
  
  
  
I looked at the fat eunuch sitting down the white weirwood table of the small council, he was dressed in purple silk robes with a green trim. He looked at me attentively and I embarrassingly admitted, “You must forgive me, I have been… troubled in my mind since Lady Arryn’s passing.”  
  
  
  
That and worried that I’m still getting younger. I wasn’t yet in my thirties, but I was inching ever closer to being so. My hair was now more blonde than grey, I was less of an apple shape about my torso, and all my missing teeth had finally finished growing back in—a process that was not without its own dull aching pain in the mouth that was rather unbearable without aspirin, but I wasn’t about to see Pycelle about this. I would just have to grin and bear it.  
  
  
  
“Understandable, given the attachment you and the Lady held for one another,” simpered Varys in an attempt to sound sincere—if I hadn’t known of his long game with Aegon, the bloody mummer likely would have had me fooled given the level of his performance.  
  
  
  
“I thank you for your sincerity,” I acknowledged, though certainly not meaning it.  
  
  
  
Varys smiled and continued, “The pattern, as I call it, seems to be that one man or one woman from each kingdom have been “blessed” as you have, my lord. They are from all walks of life—rich, poor, maester, holy, merchant, noble, and smallfolk, it matters not, only that they were towards the end of their lives. Why the King’s own gooduncle, Ser Harbert, is among the ones chosen besides yourself.”  
  
  
  
And if Pycelle starts screeching Lord Bloodraven again, he has to upset Robert over his own beloved Great Uncle.  
  
  
  
“And now we are all that much closer to the start of our lives than their end,” I added before sighing and saying, “At least I am not in want for company.”  
  
  
  
Varys explained, “The reactions to some of them, though have proven grave in some respects. The woman from the Iron Isles was an aged Salt Wife. She had been a withered old crone that no one knew how old she was… and to have seen her suddenly regain youth and beauty, the Drowned Priests talked of demons and magic, and they drowned her. A rather peculiar old hermit in the Riverlands found himself stoned to death by a mob when a Stoney Septon denounced him for a woodswitch. Given such reactions, I would be cautious of leaving the Red Keep for the time being, my lord.” Varys then giggled, and added, “Well, at least without your men about you.”  
  
  
  
“And what is your opinion of this miracle, Lord Varys?” I turned around on him.  
  
  
  
“My opinion? I am but a small spider, spinning my web in a lonely corner—” Varys said as he attempted to evade giving an answer. Why no one in Westeros ever thought of pinning the spider down I never knew—mayhaps it was simply because George needed it to be that for reasons of the plot.  
  
  
  
I pressed further, “It is a simple question, Lord Varys. You are from Essos as I recall, have you ever encountered anyone with such powers as to reverse old age on such a scale that wasn’t mummery of some sort—a trick of the fire and a voice or some other such act accompanying some sort of sacrifice? Smeared blood on the person, and a few nonsense words, and suddenly a mummer’s mask falls to reveal a rejuvenated youth.”  
  
  
  
Varys did not even blink in reaction to my prod, merely stating with the utmost poise, “You would paint Essos such a savage place?”  
  
  
  
“Is that not the reason we all left it in the first place?” I answered with a slight smirk which drew a chortle out of Robert.  
  
  
  
“One thing’s for sure, your sense of humor has improved with less age, old man” laughed Robert.  
  
  
  
“In any case, Lord Varys, I would not suspect magic to be the cause behind this. Magic is clearly dead in the world. Do the glass candles burn? Do dragons fly overhead? Do First Men speak of green dreams they have had? Have the Rhoynar discovered the lost arts of their water wizards? Do shadow binders give birth to demons who walk in the night? The answer is no. And even if all that were so and there were a woodswitch out there as truly powerful as all that—why would she waste her time on making those of us so near the graves, less so? What purpose would such a person derive from making nine random people younger? No. This must be the work of the Gods. For in the death of magic, only the Gods can work such miracles.”  
  
  
  
I had practiced that speech for several nights. I mayhaps might have stumbled a bit in the delivery, but damn if I wasn’t a better public speaker now.  
  
  
  
“Which Gods?” questioned Varys.  
  
  
  
“Old, new, both mayhaps?” I suggested. This was going to be my explanation for it. It was a common enough reason for other Self-Insert stories. Why buck tradition when the groove is so nice and well-worn?  
  
  
  
“Say this is the work of the Seven, my lord.” Pycelle wheezed exaggeratedly before contributing the first thing he had said the entire meeting. “why would they choose these specific people and ignore others who might be… more worthy?”  
  
  
  
I forced myself to smile.  
  
  
  
“While I can understand your eagerness to serve another four kings more before you depart this life, Grandmaester, I would not be so keen on wishing you in my place. After all, we know not when this process will end… mayhaps I shall end it in swaddling clothes and be brother to mine own son… and that would not be an enviable position.”  
  
  
  
Pycelle’s eyes widened, as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him before. And why would it? He after all had not been raised on 1980s body switching movies, tales of Ponce de Leon, the Philosopher’s Stone, and bad 50’s Sci-Fi that had explored the subject. For a moment I paused and had a dreaded fear, that mayhaps that was the fate that awaited me. After all, I had that original work that I had been working on off and on between writing fan fiction where one of the characters had been experimenting with alchemy and instead of creating the elixir of life had created a formula which had caused him to re-live his life at an accelerated rate. What if?  
  
  
  
“Indeed my lord,” echoed Varys in an empty acknowledgment of what I had said. Yet more literary padding, simply added to make a conversation seem like it existed when it didn’t. Pycelle bit his lip. Obviously I had given him something to consider.  
  
  
  
“In any case, no matter what ages we stop at, I would say that we have been awarded a second chance in life to do good things for the realm however we may. Do you have a list of the gods’ chosen, Varys?”  
  
  
  
Varys reached into his sleeve and pulled out a roll of parchment that I would not have known had been up his sleeve unless he’d pulled it out. Likely there were hidden pockets up there. I took the list and gave a quick perusal of the names:  


  
_  
Nan of Winterfell, the North  
  
  
Yara a salt wife of Old Wyk, the Iron Isles  
  
  
Old Tris the Hermit of Lord Harroway’s Town, the Riverlands  
  
  
Lady Jocelyn Royce, the Vale  
  
  
Tyanna, a fishmonger of Lannisport, the Westerlands  
  
  
Lord Jon Arryn, the Crownlands  
  
  
Archmaester Walgrave of the Citadel, Oldtown, the Reach  
  
  
Ser Harbert Baratheon of Storm’s End, the Stormlands  
  
  
Septa Rosa of the Sandy Sept, Dorne_  


  
  
  
_I wonder if the Wall and Beyond the Wall count in this?_  
  
  
  
After looking the list over I announced, “I would propose bringing the gods’ chosen to King’s Landing. If we are to do the gods’ work, why not be in one place to do so?”  
  
  
  
This way if they are more self-inserts, I might be able to determine the truth of whom I am working with, or possibly against… and if they aren’t self-insterts, well, at least I might be able to learn more backstory and exposition to this story from their now rejuvenated long memories. Pity Bloodraven isn’t among them, his memory might have been of use. But then again, I don’t need any more Pycelles screeching “Lord Bloodraven” whenever I set foot in Maegor’s Holdfast. I had already sent ravens to Lady Royce and Archmaester Walgrave—that had been my first order of business after having been shut out of Lysa’s sick chambers, and composing the letters had given me something to do while I waited on what had felt the inevitable to be announced.  
  
  
  
Varys did not bat an eye at the notion. “An intriguing suggestion, and how might you contact all these folk?”  
  
  
  
“That is where your little birds might be of service,” I suggested, before turning to Robert who had obviously begun to lose attention in the meeting as his eyes were focused on some of the tapestries hanging in the hall that depicted battles, hunting and fighting. I cleared my throat and Robert’s own attention returned to the table.  
  
  
  
I repeated the idea once more. “I would ask Lord Varys to invite these godschosen to King’s Landing, with your grace’s permission of course.”  
  
  
  
Robert nodded his head, his mind clearly not that interested in the matter anymore.  
  
  
  
Pycelle then took a roll of parchment up from the table in front of him and said, “Before this miracle, Lord Arryn, you had said you were interested in looking for a Master of Coin to assist you in the duties you’ve assumed as Hand. Are you still interested in such an appointment now that the gods… have made their will be known to you?”  
  
  
  
The man clearly was a skeptic, but as long as Robert supported me, that mattered little, for the nonce. Again I noted, I needed to find a way to get rid of Pycelle. Varys might be good to keep for a few more years, at least as long as his Aegon was still a boy and the Targaryen children in Essos.  
  
  
  
Diplomatically, I answered, “I would be willing to look at any recommendations you might have for me, Grandmaester. I imagine this affair concerning my age reversal will take up enough time to warrant another addition to our small council.”  
  
  
  
“I have just such a list of names, somewhere here among my rolls.” Pycelle eagerly began shifting through the pile of rolls in front of him. The man took care to give his hands an extra shake as he unfurled each and every one, pretended to examine them with poor eyesight and then declared that no, that wasn’t the one before moving on to the next. He knew damn well which was which, and I began wondering if a rejuvenated Archmaester Walgrave might not be convinced to stay in King’s Landing to “assist” the aging Pycelle. Why go for Gormon, when the plot obviously necessitated that I pick an already selected maester instead? I just pray he has cordial intentions.  
  
  
  
When Pycelle had at long last found the roll he was looking for, I snatched it rather eagerly, stood, and dismissed the council by saying, “If you excuse me gentlemen, I would see my son—and after that, your grace, I would see you in the practice yard again.”  
  
  
  
Robert, who had nearly zoned out, was all smiles the second he had heard “practice yard”. “That eager for a rematch old man? Don’t want to push yourself too much, you’re just getting used to being young again.”  
  
  
  
“And you are getting used to actually having a reason to throw that warhammer around again, your grace,” I answered with a smirk, which caused Robert to bluster a bit before laughing.  
  
  
  
_Careful, don’t injure his pride..._  
  
  
  
As I made my way to the Tower of the Hand, I took a moment to look once again at the two lists. Pycelle’s was mostly filled with Westermen—either Lannisters in name, or as good as such, like Lord Andros Brax. The closest to Tywin that Pycelle dare suggest was Kevan Lannister. Kevan, given what I recalled from the books, was a Westerman I might have truly considered for the post, were his brother not alive. That said, I largely dismissed the list, considering it not of much use to my purpose. At some point I would need reveal the truth of Cersei and Jaime to Robert—and having a Westerman Master of Coin would not help with that matter in the least. No, I needed someone in that position who was completely dependent upon my goodwill when the time came to dislodge Cersei’s children from the line of succession. That matter would need be addressed soon, but at the moment I could not put my mind to it. Rowena with her fair hair and eyes had reappeared in my mind’s eye… laying before me all pox marked and then she turned into the raven haired beauty of Jeyne, lost in her bloody bed… gods I could see them as if they were before me. I tried to find some other thought, but it wasn’t until I had arrived in the Tower of the Hand that their incessant ghosts stopped dogging me. Would Lysa soon join them? Mayhaps.  
  
  
  
The makeshift nursery was set up in Lysa’s birthing chambers. It was thought not to take young Jasper from the fully carpeted and draped room for another moon or two. I found his wet nurse, Aestyr, feeding him when I entered the room.  
  
  
  
Aestyr spoke the moment he entered and waved his guard to remain by the door outside the chamber, “I’ll be done soon m’lord. He’s had quite the feeding… a greedy little boy this one is.”  
  
  
  
Recalling how Lysa in the other future had kept Sweetrobin on her breast until she died, I figured that was simply confirmation that Jasper indeed still had the same potential to be a Sweetrobin if I weren’t careful. After he had been burped properly and Aestyr had handed Jasper over to me, I took in the sight of Jon’s—my son. He was so small and barely had the ability to open his eyes—which if the light weren’t deceiving me were blue. He fussed in his swaddling clothes as I settled down in a chair near the hearth that Aestyr had vacated.  
  
  
  
There was simply an overwhelming compulsion I had to sit and hold my son… Jon—I had been childless for over fifty years, and now to have a living child. I sure hope that if there’s readers following along that they aren’t too bored. I mean, I know there’s a large subset of the fandom that only reads stories in order to see their favorite characters happy and well settled—but those fans typically congregate around Modern AUs and Cat/Ned fics. The other folks eager for blood or something weird to happen are just plain out of luck here.  
  
  
  
I yawned, being next to this hearth was putting me to sleep a warm room like this always put me to sleep. Jasper was already dozing off himself.  
  
  
  
“He’s rather fetching,” I heard a voice Jon—I hadn’t heard in nearly two decades. I jerked my head up to see leaning on the mantle Jon’s—my sister, Alys. She was a taller woman with long flowing blonde hair she had done in braids which looped around so they seemed unending while she wore a small green cap with black trim to match her Waynwood green colored dress with black bear fur lined sleeves and neck. She was in her full health of youth, her blue eyes shimmering like a spring-fed mountain lake high in the mountains. She shared the tell-tale family trait of an aquiline nose, though she had the round shape of mother’s face. When my eyes met hers, she smiled and moved from leaning against the mantle and approached to get a better look of Jon’s—my son.  
  
  
_She’s dead…._  
  
  
  
I said as she endearingly looked down at Jasper and ran her fingers over his head, “This is a dream.”  
  
  
  
“Aye, a very literary dream if I might say. Normally a dream wouldn’t be this open and frank with the dreamer, but when you’re fictional suddenly things make more sense than when you’re living life.”  
  
  
  
To my left I heard the sound of rocks falling and breaking. I looked over worried that a window had broken. But instead I saw nothing, but what looked to be the remains of some wall that had somehow appeared on the floor all the same. It took me a moment to figure out what that meant.  
  
  
  
“Really?” I turned and asked Alys.  
  
  
  
Alys sighed and admitted, “Symbols need be hit over the head of the reader, and yet never explicitly stated, if they’re to be picked up on at all.”  
  
  
  
“Could we stop insulting both writers and readers for a moment, and move the plot forward some? Not that I don’t like meta humor, but this is really pushing it.”  
  
  
  
Alys rolled her eyes and said, “Fine. I’m here to finish the process of integrating your personalities that you so rudely interrupted in the first chapter. I’m a comforting symbol your depressed and fragmented mind picked out to make the process easier.” With that said, she slapped me across the face. “You can stop thinking Jon—I, Jon—me, Jon’s—my, and Jon’s—mine. The point was made two chapters ago.”  
  
  
  
Somehow maintaining Jasper in my lap with only one hand, I took my right hand and rubbed the cheek she’d hit, “If you’re the good cop, I’d hate to have seen what the bad cop would have been like.”  
  
  
  
Alys moved towards the door, “I can call her in if the point wasn’t made clear enough.”  
  
  
  
I protested, “No! No, I mean, I got the message.”  
  
  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
  
  
“That was the entire message, right?”  
  
  
  
“What do you mean?” asked Alys seemingly innocent enough.  
  
  
  
“I mean isn’t there usually some kind of foreshadowing you’re obligated to do, as a dream?” I asked as I returned my right hand to supporting Jasper without disturbing him once.  
  
  
  
Alys scoffed, “Foreshadowing?! Do I look like I have weirwood roots growing through me? Tell me, is there a glass candle lit nearby, or am I wearing a wooden mask? The answer to all of them is no! Any prophetic dreams of that nature are all sent by someone looking to manipulate people into doing what the sender wants against their best interests, or haven’t you been reading the author’s works carefully?”  
  
  
  
“No, I’ve been reading his Thousand Worlds books, I know his tropes… so, when is the obligatory love triangle going to show up?”  
  
  
  
Alys, pulling a steaming tea cup out of thin air took a seat opposite of me and said, “As I said, do I look like I know everything, big brother? That was your job.”  
  
  
  
“Exposition time?” I asked.  
  
  
  
“Just enough to add a bit more flavor to an otherwise highly underdeveloped character.”  
  
  
  
As she sipped from her cup, a wave of nostalgia hit me, reminding me of a distant childhood memory, “You look like mother just now…”  
  
  
  
Alys smirked, “You mean with my nose hidden? Aye, I suppose I do look the most like her, but you were always the one who thought like her. You were always interested in the fortune of the weak and less fortunate. Any show of strength and you’d drop your portcullis, but show you a falconet with an injured wing, and you’d nurse the bloody thing back to health.”  
  
  
  
With a strident tone, I answered, “It was what honor demanded.”  
  
  
  
Alys nearly snorted into her tea, “Please, if you did everything that honor demanded, you wouldn’t have taken Rowena’s maidenhead.”  
  
  
  
And then suddenly half the room seemed to fade into darkness, and suddenly half of it was replaced with a small room in the Eyrie. There he stood in that room, a teenager of five and ten with the slightly older seven and ten Rowena all limbs and mouths. She dragged my arms to her dress, and I pulled back, as though it had burned my hand.  
  
  
  
“I—I shouldn’t… your honor…” the teenager stammered.  
  
  
  
She said as she kissed and began to undo his doublet, “Is safe in your hands. After all, we shall marry.”  
  
  
  
I fumbled at her dress and admitted, “Aye… I want that more than anything.”  
  
  
  
She then leaned in and whispered in that boy’s ear, and yet I was still audible across the room to where I sat, “Think of it this way… if your father should find out… then our marriage would be guaranteed.”  
  
  
  
As the doublet fell and the dress began to come loose, I felt obliged to cover Jasper’s eyes and began to grow worried about how long Alys was going to let the memory play—especially given that she was rather uncharacteristically enthralled with it.  
  
  
  
“Do we need the home movie?”  
  
  
  
Alys pouted. “Spoilsport.” She then snapped her fingers and the memory faded, leaving the other half of the room. A smoky smell hit my nose.  
  
  
  
“Is that smoke?” I asked.  
  
  
  
“You are sleeping next to a fire, brother.”  
  
  
  
“I know that, but it’s stronger than just that.”  
  
  
  
“Oh fudge! That wasn’t supposed to happen so soon,” she said before disappearing as smoke suddenly filled the room, causing me to cough and my eyes to water. Jasper was beginning to cry, and my immediate thought was for his breathing. Somewhere I heard pounding and voices—but I could not focus on that, not with Jasper crying and coughing.  
  
  
  
_A window! I must open a window!_  
  
  
  
And so I rose, suddenly aware that I was very much awake as I felt my sore muscles ache with movement. I hurried to a window—which wouldn’t open so I pounded at it with my fist four, five, seven times until it broke and fresh air was able to start pouring into the room. I held my son as close to the window as I could. As Jasper’s coughs began to be replaced with more consistent and frequent cries, I tried to hush him—but it wasn’t until I heard a floorboard groan behind me that I became aware that I wasn’t in the room alone. And suddenly the pounding and shouts from outside the room became clearer to me as I turned around to see a cloaked man standing there, a dagger in hand.  
  
  
  
“Where’s the old man?” questioned the assassin from behind a scarf which obscured the lower half of his face.  
  
  
  
_Godsdamnit. Caught in an assassination attempt and armed only with a babe._  
  
  
  
There was a dagger at my side, thank the gods for that, but that would mean having to put Jasper down and take a chance that the assassin wouldn’t swoop upon him. Well, it’s not like standing here and deciding this is going to make the situation any better.  
  
  
  
“I said: where’s the old man?” repeated the assassin, taking a few steps closer.  
  
  
  
_Old man? Did he mean me? Might my regression have caused him some confusion?_  
  
  
  
“I know where he is. If you let me put the babe down, I—I’ll take you to him.” I bluffed. Oddly, the timbre of my voice sounded different.  
  
  
Reacting without thinking, I set Jasper down the moment he started talking, and drew my dagger.  
  
  
“You can drop the brat for all I care, it doesn’t change the fact—quick. Fuck, I hate the quick ones.”  
  
  
  
And so my training began to pay off. I parried his knife and moved to knock the wind out of him with my shoulder. He jumped back to avoid me, causing me to make contact with nothing but air and to lose my balance and fall to the floor in front of the assassin.  
  
  
  
_Smooth, very smooth. Of course I’ve been training with a sword and not a dagger._  
  
  
  
I saw steel moving towards me, and I did the only thing I could—I grabbed one of his legs causing him to fall ontop of me. I then stabbed my dagger approximately where the Achilles tendon would be—the knife cutting through the worn-thin leather like butter and causing the man to scream in pain. Blood came a second later. I moved, attempting to keep the same from happening to me, and while the assassin recovered, I stabbed him in the gut and he next I heard his knife fall to the floor. It was close to my foot and I kicked it somewhere across the room. I then pinned him down with my knife to his throat.  
  
  
  
“Talk!” I shouted as I pressed the blade close to his Adam’s apple. I was spat at with bloody saliva. Angry, and hearing Jasper crying, I turned my energy towards the threat, the danger that had nearly killed my son. And an anger that I hadn’t felt since the days of the Mad King rose within me. This could not stand.  
  
  
  
I stated seriously, drawing a little blood from his neck as I did—only a small trickle’s worth, “I can kill you nice and easy now, or we can let that belly wound bleed out and drag this out for a few hours. Which you get depends on how well you talk.”  
  
  
  
Again the man was silent, his green eyes glaring at me.  
  
  
  
Just then the door was broken down by my guards, causing my hold to slip and the dagger to slit the man’s throat. He died a few moments later, blood splattering everywhere, taking his story with him to the grave.


	4. Auld Lang Syne

_**Chapter 4: Auld Lang Syne** _

 

To say that I had the Tower of the Hand strip searched and violated like an airport security officer might do to a potential passenger would not best describe how thoroughly I had every nook and cranny of that blasted place examined until each and every secret passage was discovered. Someone had just tried to kill me, godsdamnit I was going to respond to this directly and fiercely! My Arryn blood and the honor of my family demanded no less than that the treacherous bastard who’d attempted the foolishness be dealt with.

 

The search was not without its fruits, the assassin had entered from an entrance hidden behind the hearth leading to a narrow passage that eventually led to a ladder that dropped down into the bowels of the castle. The back of the hearth was further away than it seemed at first glance, and unless you stuck your head into the hearth itself and brought a torch along with you, the passageway was completely unnoticeable. That explained why smoke had filled the room before the assassin had struck—he had put out the fire in order to enter the room. No matter, I was having masons block off the drop off down into the depths of the castle. While I appreciated the hiding spot behind the hearth, surely a boon to have in case of an attack, I wasn’t about to let anyone climb that ladder and listen in to any conversation I had.

 

There was only one man who knew the Red Keep’s secret passages so well—and that was Varys. No doubt he wanted me dead for my magical revival. The man clearly loathed any sign of magic and my renewed age was likely a distinct reminder of what had been forced upon him at a young age. I couldn’t blame him too much, to be honest. The way that Martin treats magic in his world, it is more there for shock and horror than any kind of healing. It gives birth to monsters who bring destruction in their wake and demand blood as their price. To be sure there were a few who used its most superficial arts as a way to entertain, there’d been that rope trick in Qaarth after all in _A Clash for Kings_. But largely, magic was dark and often portrayed as unleashing unnatural abominations, or at the very least capable of becoming such when taken too far. I could hardly blame Varys for reacting in such a manner, in fact it only seemed the natural and logical reaction to his presence. Especially now since I’d dropped in age from just barely forty to a hale seven and thirty namedays during my nap with Jasper.

 

But while all that made _logical_ sense, if Varys was killing me for getting younger, why would he tell the assassin to kill the “old man”?

 

A knock on my solar’s door disturbed me from my late afternoon thoughts that I’d used as a distraction from estimating what reports of this year’s harvest would likely mean in terms of tax revenue.

 

“Come in,” I admitted, rubbing my hands over my face to re-energize myself after several sleepless nights spent by my son’s crib which had been brought to my chamber.

 

A red cloak opened the door revealing for the first time since my arrival, Queen Cersei Lannister.

 

_Fuck. I almost forgot about her._

 

She stood there for a moment in a clear state of shock, saying at long last after giving me more than a once over with her eyes, “Lord Arryn, I had heard of your recovery of vitality, but I had thought the extent of such reports had been grossly exaggerated.”

 

I stood, in respect of her position, as my father had taught me many years ago. His words echoing now in my skull:

 

_“If you cannot respect the person for themselves, then you can at least respect them for the rank and title that they hold, if that rank is worthy of honor and respect!”_

 

Solemnly I replied, “Your Grace. The gods’ gift to myself and others of my generation across the Seven Kingdoms has been like all other gods’ gifts, a blessing and a curse all at once.”

 

Cersei’s face crinkled at that before being replaced with a smile. “Is it not true that being touched by the gods’ their lives are forever altered? Why shouldn’t it be the case that such blessings be apparent to the world? It makes me wonder what your secret is that deemed you worthy of such a blessing.”

 

“I have never been particularly holy, your grace, though I kept good faith with my oaths and duties. Mayhaps it is for that reason I have been chosen.”

 

_For the large part… Jeyne might have said something to the contrary…_

 

As the momentary sensation of guilt passed over me, the Queen took a seat to which I responded in kind.

 

She spoke sweetly, her eyes lingering on him as though she actually were a lioness seizing up an animal she wished to pounce upon. “I came, Jon, you do not mind if I call you Jon, I hope?”

 

I waved my hand to indicate my acquiescence. And she continued on.

 

“I came, to thank you for the renewal in my husband’s spirits of late. His health has been an issue ever since he returned from the Greyjoy Rebellion with that leg wound that left him with little to do other than drink and eat. Since your own spirits have been revitalized and have had such an influence on him, I wanted to personally come and extend my gratitude.”

 

_Put a kink in your works, have I? She’s all poisoned honey._

 

With as much of a smile as I could muster I replied, “You are quite welcome your grace. The King and I have both been long from the practice yard, and find it quite refreshing—especially him since I now provide more of a challenge to him.”

 

She continued wetting her lips ever so slyly and subtly before speaking—her eyes still locked on me, “Yes and before seeing your own… renewal of youth, I was going to bring you great news. In light of his mother’s death and the atrocious attempt on your own life, I wrote to my father and asked, if only for the health and safety of your house and family, if he might agree to foster your son as a reward for the years of loyalty and devotion you have given the Kingdom and the King. He has answered that he would consider it an honor to have the future Warden of the East as a ward. Coming from my father that is indeed high praise for you and your house. As you must know he has never, to my knowledge, fostered anyone.”

 

_She oversteps herself. She may be the Queen, but to presume such matters as her domain is a step too far._

 

I leaned forward in my seat and admitted, “Were I still my old age, I must admit, your grace, that such an offer would be tempting, but I feel, that given this second chance and the death of his mother, I ought to keep my son close to myself and raise him as an Arryn ought to be, as my father would have wanted.”

 

Cersei continued with an easy air, “But surely, without a mother, such duties until he is of an age of reason would be tiresome for you alone, would it not? I have many cousins with children at Casterly Rock. There he would not be for want of company of children close to his own age.”

 

“Aye, I admit that without a mother it will be hard. But we parents who love our children so and would do anything to keep them safe, will do anything to keep them at our side. Don’t you agree, your grace?” I ask with a knowing glance.

 

This seems to affect Cersei some as she takes a momentary pause before giving the first genuine smile I’ve seen from her the entire conversation.

 

“You are quite different, Jon, but as a mother, I can fully understand your reasons. I shall of course write to my father about the matter. Given how much he has lectured me on the values of family, I am sure he will be as understanding… given the circumstances.”

 

She then rises and I do as well, causing my chair to scratch against the stone floor and squeal a bit as it does. She reaches over my desk then and touches my arm which had used the desk to push up—a habit I’d had from when my body had been many pounds heavier and in a more feeble body, that was hard to break given my recent rejuvenation.

 

“We must speak again about our children, Jon. Mayhaps we might find we have more in common than a desire to protect them.”

 

Her touch was only lightly there, but it felt as though she were a lion which had placed the full weight of its paw without exerting that weight. The Queen’s gaze met his before once again looking me over and then turning and departing the room.

 

This again left me alone with my thoughts, which were all aflutter after that conversation.

_It’s time to send Jasper out of King’s Landing. But where?_

 

Lady Jocelyn Royce would soon arrive in the capital to discuss about her own rejuvenation. She’s Nestor’s granddame. She might be trusted to take him to Nestor and see him safely ensconced in the Vale. But she might also be a self-insert given her own rejuvenation, with an agenda of her own. True, Brynden would be there in the Vale to look after him, but if Lady Jocelyn was working for her own agenda, then I wouldn’t want her anywhere near my son or to even have the opportunity for being so. And Brynden likely wouldn’t know what to do with a suckling babe anyway, beyond finding a wet nurse.

 

Then there was Lysa’s family to consider. I hadn’t yet heard from Hoster or Edmure in Riverrun since I had sent a raven out with the news of Lysa’s death, but a raven from them was due by the end of the week. Hoster would likely insist that his grandson be looked after—but given Hoster was going to be bedridden soon, and Edmure was the medieval equivalent of a college frat boy, I didn’t want to leave my son in their hands. I didn’t expect to hear back from Winterfell so soon, but I certainly expected Catelyn to respond and at the very least inquire after the health of her nephew—if not offer to take him in until he was “of the age of reason”. That might not be such a bad idea. It would satisfy Hoster and the Tullys that he was “being taken care of by family”, while giving my son a safe and relatively stable environment to grow up in with time to come to know his Stark cousins. And when Jasper had reached the age of reason, he would return south. Yes. If Catelyn made such an offer, I would accept it, but I wasn’t about to go arranging it myself, I resolved. It would look unseemly to go from rejecting Tywin’s offer to immediately arranging for an offer of my own. And if enough time passes between now and when Catelyn’s letter would theoretically arrive, I could play it off as having grown tired and weary of having such a young babe to take care of. And if she didn’t immediately? Well, then I could arrange a visit to Winterfell myself and conclude after seeing my son with his cousins that he belonged there when asked why I was returning without him.

 

I was once again interrupted from my thoughts by another knock at my door, this time it was Erasmys.

 

“My lord, you said you wanted to be made aware when Ser Harbert arrived.”

 

“He’s arrived already?!” I exclaimed.

 

“Storm’s End is but a short ride through the Kingswood,” stated Erasmys so innocently, I began to wonder if there had been a maester at Snakewood when he was a boy.

 

I countered as I put away the spreadsheets of my own making and then walked around the desk, “Cousin, you severely underestimate the size of the Stormlands if you think it half covered by the Kingswood.”

 

Erasmys conceded, “Aye, but that doesn’t stop it from being an easy ride up the King’s Road.”

 

To that I had to concede the point. As I left my room I tried to recall everything I could about Ser Harbert... and like everything else here, a flood of expositional memory drowned me. When I surfaced, I knew now that he was my friend and comrade from the Fourth Blackfyre Rebellion. I had been a squire at the time to Ser Vaemyr Celtigar the Old Crab, and had been eager to do some act worthy being knighted for, while wearing Rowena’s favor on my arm of course. Harbert had been a young knight in the service of his elder brother, Ormund, and we had enjoyed ourselves far too much in the celebration that was held after Daemon Blackfyre’s head had been lopped off by Ser Duncan the Tall. Aegon the Fifth had been a young King then, and the promise of his reign had yet to sour and lead to multiple rebellions, rebellions that had only made my friendship with Harbert deeper as we fought or met one another just after the battle if we were not on the same side of a battle.

 

Harbert had already discovered Robert at the practice yard, and from the sight of him was busy yelling at the King, who was actually using a sword against Ser Barristan, as though he were still a boy under his instruction. The sight looked ridiculous, given Harbert was now closer to Robert’s age than the old warrior he was shouting as. Not far off from the duel was Robert’s warhammer, leaning lonely against a post. Recognizing the sword immediately, a quick glance at the empty scabbard at Harbert’s side confirmed my suspicions.

 

“Your footing is all wrong, boy!” exclaimed the seasoned warrior gruffly. My memory recalled the last time I had seen him. He had been skeletal thin immediately after the siege of Storm’s End. I had stopped by the castle both on my way and returning from Dorne for the peace negotiations with the Martells. Harbert had been so decimated by the siege Stannis had been required to step up as the naval commander, despite Robert having wanted to award Harbert the role. However the man who I saw as I approached from across the yard and recognized rather easily as Harbert was far different from that old skeleton who’d been hovering near death for the last nine years. He looked about my new age, if not a few years younger—an unusual sight considering I was far more used to his being a few years my elder. His Baratheon black hair was full, straight, and long, but pulled back into a ponytail held in place with a piece of black twine. He kept a recently close cropped goatee upon his chin which along with his thick eyebrows conveyed a sad look upon his face that made him appear more of the stoic than my memory recalled of him. Harbert heard my approaching footsteps as I crossed the ground and he turned his head sharply. We stared at one another for a long held moment.

 

“Ahh, Arryn, I was wondering when you’d find us,” Harbert said gruffly.

 

I was taken aback by Harbert’s sudden use of my family name.

 

“It’s Arryn now, is it?” I questioned.

 

Harbert grunted and added, “Considering the sorry state that boy is in now, did you expect me to be happy about it?”

 

My eyes narrowed, “He’s in just as bad a shape as when you delivered him to me at the Eyrie when he was nine. So I’ll have no more of this “Arryn” nonsense over what’s clearly Robert’s natural inclinations and failings when he isn’t being pressured.”

 

Harbert “hmmed” but failed at keeping his mouth from breaking into a smirk.

 

“Got a bit touchier with the return of youth, have you?” japed Harbert in the manner I recalled him having far more frequently.

 

“You’re an ass,” I respond which only makes him laugh.

 

“It’s been a long time, my friend… what, nearly eight years since you came to see me? Too bloody long in any case.”

 

I justified the absence with, “You know the King—he leaves the job of ruling mostly to his Hand.”

 

Harbert, always quick on the uptake, added, “See, this is why I always thought there should be two Hands of the King. That way when one hand grows too tired from the jerk, the other can take over the beating.”

 

I hit him upside the head for that one. Old habits die hard.

 

“Gods, you’re still acting like an old man.”

 

“And you weren’t a moment ago?” I countered.

 

Harbert groaned, “That’s different. Robert expects me to be an old ass who keeps him on his toes.” Harbert then raised his voice so that it carried across the practice yard, “Godsbedamned, boy, I said to correct your footing you stinking sack of suet!”

 

At that, Ser Barristan himself paused the fight and turned to Ser Harbert.

 

“Ser! Kin or no, I would remind you that you’re addressing the King!” insisted Ser Barristan boldly and nobly as Robert caught his breath in the brief respite he’d been given from fighting Selmy with a sword.

 

Harbert, like always, was not one to be put in his place by those he considered to be his juniors. “And I recall stealing a kiss from your mother long before she had you in swaddling clothes, Selmy! Give him a real fight, or I’ll come out there and knock both your heads together!”

 

Ser Barristan looked at once both shocked and angry, but by this time, Robert had recovered his breath enough to bark at his Lord Commander that he wanted to practice again. And taking only a moment to recover, Barristan and Robert were once again at each other.

 

“Selmy’s a good warrior, but the Targaryens ruined him with all their courtly manners. Thank the gods he passed on his lordship to his cousin or else he’d have made a piss poor Stormlord.”

 

“You’re being overly harsh of the Lord Commander,” I interjected reluctantly.

 

“Ever the falcon, flying high above it all.” Harbert then shook his head and made one last point as he reached into a satchel he had around his waist. “If he were a true Stormlord free from all the Targaryen foppery, he would have called me a hoary son of a bitch and been done with it.”

 

“But you wouldn’t have been done with it,” I countered. To which Harbert guffawed and nodded his head in agreement before flashing a view of a small clay pipe from his satchel.

 

“For old time’s sake?” asked Harbert with a conspiratorial smirk. In my prior life I’d lived in the “real world” I’d only taken a few experimental puffs on a hooka, but otherwise had kept clean from all other smoking habits. In my prior life I’d lived here in Westeros, I’d indulged in the habit whenever Harbert was around, caving in to the peer pressure of his friendship.

 

“Oh, all right,” I conceded, and Harbert led us away from the main part of the practice yard and around a corner to a shaded spot. A rather modern choice of locale for smoking as far as I was concerned, pushing me to test him at the first opportunity. It was behind that corner that Harbert relaxed his posture as he leaned against a wall and seemed to become more at ease with himself and his younger body. This was the perfect opportunity to test and see if he was truly Old Harbert come again, or another self-insert merged persona. As he emptied his pipe of dirt with his small finger, I nonchalantly whistled the first phrase of the Star Spangled Banner. Harbert looked up at me upon hearing the tune and I felt confident in saying that I was not alone upon seeing his smirk.

 

And then he said with a laugh, “I’m sad to say that I only brought the grass. If you’re thirsty for ale, mayhaps you’ll call a servant for one instead of whistling that old song.”

 

I looked at him with confusion for a moment until my expositional memory lag finally caught up. It seemed the tune here was an old drinking song. _Fuck._

 

“I was just thinking of the old times you mentioned,” I bluffed.

 

“Gods help us we were two drunken fools after Daemon’s death,” laughed Harbert as he took out a knife and some flint from his satchel.

 

I reminded him, “Half the Seven Kingdoms were.”

 

We laughed for a moment, but it ended with a sigh and silence.

 

“I wanted to say, I’m sorry for your wife…” he said rather genuinely as he pulled out a leather bag which on sight I could see contained piper’s grass mixed with a red leaf that was unmistakably sourleaf.

 

Honestly I answer, “Thank you. I wasn’t as close with her as I was with Rowena… but, losing a wife is always hard, no matter how close you were.”

 

“Well, on the bright side, you finally have that son you always wanted,” he said with a well-intentioned slap on my shoulder.

 

“At such a cost…” I add solemnly, the wave of grief suddenly rolling up once more and disturbing the respite I’d been feeling since the assassination attempt.

 

Harbert handed me the pipe as he began to strike the flint and steel together to catch a spark. To distract myself and get a better hold on my emotions, I took notice of the ornately carved stag on the handle, “That looks awfully fine for a spark knife.”

 

Harbert answered after lighting the pipe, “Rhaelle gave it to me on my last nameday before Summerhall. She said I needed a more “dignified” knife at my hip as castellan. I made it my spark knife just to spite her.”

 

As Harbert took a long draft of the pipe, I recalled how as a son of the Laughing Storm he had always looked upon his Targaryen goodsister with suspicion and derision at the best of times.

 

He leaned his head back against the wall and sighed as I took a drag on the pipe myself. He said, “Gods be praised they’re overthrown, dead, and gone. And with any luck, now I’ll live to see the two brats across the Narrow Sea dead as well. That’s what was keeping me alive all this time, you know… well, that and the sourleaf.”

 

“That’s why you mixed in the sourleaf?” I asked after exhaling, ignoring the comment about Viserys and Daenerys. They’d have to be handled... carefully, after all.

 

“After I lost my teeth, smoking it was the only way I was going to find any pain relief that wasn’t from milk of the poppy—and I wasn’t going to let any godsbedamned maester give me that day in and day out.”

 

“I’m sorry I haven’t visited more often,” I admitted, hearing a sad note tinging his voice before he inhaled.

 

“Well, I can’t say I blame you—I was a wreck until this reverse aging thing began, I wouldn’t have wanted to visit what I was either. Though… I will say I had one consolation prize.”

 

I asked as I put the pipe back in my mouth, “And that was?”

 

“A rather pretty nursemaid, all for me. Too true she was too often a blurred figure as far as my eyes were concerned, but as I started getting healthier and my teeth and eyes came back to their prime, she started looking rather good…” he said with a rather contented sigh.

 

“You had her, didn’t you?” I said, knowing the end of the story before he’d finish.

 

He insisted, “I was decent enough to give her moontea afterwards. And besides, she was rather interested, seeing me come back into my prime like that. And I just liked the feel of holding her in my arms while she sheathed my sword.”

 

“You’re worse now than when you were young the first time,” I snorted, refusing the pipe for a third time with my hand. My eyes were far too watery from the last inhale. Harbert gave me an annoyed look before continuing.

 

“Look, Jon, I know you’re an Arryn, but not all of us are satisfied with soaring high on our honor alone. The only times I had to sow my wild oats was during rebellions. Thank the gods King Aegon had plenty of them to spare. Otherwise I had to be the perfect little knight when my father was alive, and after he was gone, I had to “set an example” for my little sister’s orphaned son. She used to tell me how he needed an “upstanding example of knighthood” in his life to replace his father. I know you know, but let me finish and then you can say what you like.” He anticipated my own objection to hearing as much as that even when I’d only just opened my mouth.  
  
He continued, “When Harrold was beginning to get old enough to relax a little around, wouldn’t you know I’m made castellan of Storm’s End and my other nephew decides to breed and leave me with his boys while he and his wife pack up and go off to live at court with his dragon cousin. And just when I think that Steffon was starting to see the dragons were the problem in the first place, he and his turtle of a wife drown, leaving me with the responsibility of raising the rest of them with only help from Cressan. And then Storm’s End is put under siege, and I starve myself so that little Renly won’t go hungry, leaving me the bedridden mess you saw me as on your way back from Dorne. So I’ve done my duty to my family, my lord, and my King. The gods give me a second chance at life? I’m going to do with it as _I_ please for once. I’m going to have as many wenches as I want, I’m going to drink as much sack and ale as I can, and I’m going to smoke as much as I damn well please.”

 

I give Harbert a sad smile and admit, “You have done your duty, Harbert, and I fear you might have to do more soon.”

 

“What do you mean?” he rounded with as he emptied his pipe and slipped it back into his satchel.

 

Little did he know of the Queen’s betrayal or the dangers of court. And why should he, given his disdain for it all?

 

“Uncle! Jon!” called out Robert from elsewhere in the practice yard.

 

Knowing our time alone was soon at an end, I said, “Enjoy your freedom while you can, but I fear I’m going to need your assistance here in the capital soon or late.”

 

“What has my godsbeblasted grandnephew done now?” grumbled Harbert with a tired sigh.

 

I shake my head and whisper, “Not now… and not here.”

 

I then direct Harbert back to the main part of the courtyard and pray that when it comes time to displace certain members of the small council that Harbert’s sword will be ready to guard the back of the King.

 

As we approached, Robert called out with a hearty laugh, “I just thought of something, Uncle. I’ve got a bastard boy who needs looking after. He’s been weaned off his mother and I was going to have Renly and Ser Cortney look after him, but you did such a fine job with me before having me fostered at the Eyrie, I could think of no better man to raise him. His mother’s a Florent, and he has their ears, I’m told, but that only gives you more room to grab them with when he annoys you, like I used to.”

 

Harbert stopped in his tracks, looked at me as though this were what I had been referring to. He closed his eyes, swore under his breath, sighed, and then with a clearly forced smile, said “I’d be honored. Now let’s see what footwork Selmy’s knocked back into you.”


	5. Wasting on the Young

Harbert was fast integrated into the King’s court, and despite the threat to foster Edric Storm with Harbert, I managed to talk Robert into keeping his rejuvenated great uncle around for a few moons more (there was no rush to begin training the boy, after all, I had argued), if only to assist us in our training sessions. The more swords loyal to Robert when the time came to expose a certain lioness, the better. The part of me that had spent my entire life in Westeros cheered at having a companion who shared more of my life experience, while the other part of me couldn’t help but wonder why something was off about Harbert’s mannerisms? He’d passed the knowledge and personality tests that I as Jon Arryn had thrown at him, but he’d done them with a distinct… well, manner which seemed off for a medievalesque character. Why hide the fact he had a piping habit like some high school or college pot smoker? True the Star Spangled Banner was a drinking song here in Westeros—or at least the tune were with different lyrics, just as it had been in real life before Americans had stuck Francis Scott Key’s lyrics on top of it, but his recognizing it had to mean something more, right?

 

_Maybe I'm over thinking this, and just need someone to compare Harbert to._

 

 

The “repairs” to the Tower of the Hand as I had called them to the rest of the court, were not only coming out of my own pocket but were just completing when the next curiosity arrived at my door, Archmaester Walgrave. With a ring, rod, and mask of black iron being the only indicators I could tell the young teen before me was indeed the Archmaester. I shifted in my now four and thirty nameday body uncomfortably at seeing the youth who had been so much further into his dotage than I had. The Archmaester was now clearly a lanky lad of four or five and ten namedays, or so he looked to my estimation more acolyte than Archmaester. He had honey-blonde hair that threatened to curl at the ends of its short cut if he dared to grow it out longer than he did, with blue-green eyes, all of which would have made him look rather comely were he not dressed in the loose fitting grey robes of a maester that hung on his form quite obviously with discomfort--constantly having to push sleeves up to have his hands be free, and bogged down by a chain comically too big for him. The theories about him being the father of Walys Flowers likely just rose in my estimation due to that comeliness. He was accompanied by a novice who now was clearly the elder of the two with a pale pasty complexion, tired eyes, and short brown hair. From all of that, I knew him to be Pate. However I did not let my foreknowledge bias me, like it had with Harbert. I needed to know the truth, and for that I needed to keep my own thoughts in check.

 

 

“We are to meet with Lord Arryn, are we not?” asked the younger Walgrave, who looked about my solar with an eager curiosity. That confused me, until I had recalled that I had failed to mention in my own letter to Walgrave that I too was suffering from this “symptom” afflicting the kingdom, and had merely expressed interest in meeting with the now rejuvenated young archmaester.

 

 

Deciding that I should play the part Walgrave was assuming of me as some man in service to myself until I could no longer do so, I said, “Aye, but my lord Hand is rather busy overseeing the completion to the repairs of the Tower.”

 

 

This ought to be fun, I mean this is a classic scenario in storytelling… but usually with the guy in Walgrave’s position being the hero. What if I’m not the focus of my own self-insert story? You know, that might not be that bad a thing. But, usually this whole sequence was the classic “old man or creature you meet by the side of the road is the wise mystic you were searching for all along,” kind of scene. Like Yoda, or… well, Yoda. But again, I’d be playing the part of the wise mystic. Shit that would mean I have to actually remember stuff.  
  
“I was told he was expecting to see me as soon as I could arrive,” stated Walgrave in a quivering voice of a boy what would have sounded so much more intimidating from someone far more… mature. Worried what that might mean if I should become that young, I bit the inside of my cheek—a habit I’d picked up a while ago to hide my nervousness when I didn’t want others to see my emotions so easily. From which life though I’d picked it up from, I could not make straight.

 

 

“I trust he will. In the meanwhile is there any manner of refreshment or food you might like while we wait?” I asked, rising to go to the door and call for food and drink.

 

 

Walgrave thought for a moment, pushed up his sleeves and said, “Some arbor gold would be fine.”

 

 

I opened my door and called for some arbor gold. It was good that he chose wine, mayhaps getting him drunk might reveal certain habits.

 

 

“Expensive tastes for one so young,” I commented, seeing where that comment might provoke out of Walgrave as I leaned against the wall to Walgrave's right side for the nonce.

 

 

Walgrave’s face contorted for a moment before he rolled his constantly falling sleeves up again, “I am not as young as I look. Believe it or not I… well… I used to be much older, until one morning I awoke to find my age spots vanishing and my old strength returning to me.”

 

 

“Like Ser Harbert,” I commented.

 

 

Walgrave nodded as he said, “I had heard that the King’s kin was… blessed as well. The capital can hardly talk of anything else. Pate can testify what happened to myself, can’t you, Pate?”

 

 

Pate, who had sat there the entire time rather uncomfortably took the suggestion that he should speak. “The… archmaester is right. One night he was… um... soiling his smallclothes.”

 

 

Walgrave gave Pate a glare, while I again bit the inside of my cheek—this time to keep from laughing.

 

 

Pate however didn’t seem as intimidated by the slightly younger boy, “And the next, he was up and about giving orders and taking care of the birds… and he’s been getting younger ever since. Well he did stop when we passed Bitterbridge.”

 

 

_Is there a distance factor involved? Will I stop getting younger when I get far enough away from the Red Keep?_

 

 

My shoulder beginning to ache from being pressed against the Wall, I slowly moved back towards my desk and asked, “And speaking of your journey, how did you fare?”

 

 

“It was an extremely slow,” complained Walgrave, sounding as though he were the youth he appeared in that instant.

 

 

"Tis the nature of travel," I added.

 

 

“What Westeros needs are a few good canals…” muttered Walgrave.

 

 

I knew that instant that I had my answer, but I kept my face neutral for the moment.

 

 

“A few what?” I asked.

 

 

“Oh… nothing,” said the youth all too quickly, waving his hand and causing his robe sleeves to fall once again.

 

 

Curious, I asked as I stood behind the desk and leaned over it, “Archmaester, how familiar are you with architecture?”

 

 

He met my gaze purposefully, “Very—I mean, I earned two brass links in my chain. It was… well, it wasn't my calling as ravens have been, but a side interest? Aye.”

 

 

“I didn’t know that,” said Pate rather dumbly in that moment.

 

 

Walgrave fumbled with his sleeve as he attempted to grab his chain to hold up, eventually managing to do so as he shouted, “ _Merde_! You can see the brass links right here you imbecile!”

 

 

I felt bad for Pate, though the boy was clearly more confused and trying not to laugh seeing the diminished archmaester fumble with his overly large robes. And then there was that word he’d said… it sounded familiar…

 

 

“It’s hard to see the entirety of your chain when it almost drags on the ground,” replied Pate haltingly.

 

 

Walgrave spat back, “You’re one to speak, how many years have you been with the Citadel and you’ve yet to forge a link?! Mine might be too long for me now, but it won’t forever!”

 

 

"I just started a year ago!" defended Pate.

 

 

 _I need to interfere, now._ And then it hit me where I heard that word before… _Ubu Roi_!

 

 

I began to whistle _La Marseilles_. That almost immediately halted Walgrave whose attention immediately focused on me. I stopped at the end of a phrase, testing to see if he… yes he knew the rest of the phrase. This whistling exchange only served to confuse Pate.

 

 

“Pate, could you be so good as to see if the arbor gold is on its way?” I asked without breaking my glance at Walgrave.

 

 

“Aye,” answered Pate awkwardly before standing, his eyes darting between myself and Archmaester Walgrave before leaving the room rather quickly… rather too quickly.

 

 

“Parlez-vous français?” asked Walgrave as I took my seat once again.

 

 

“No. Un poco español. Ein bissen Deutsch sprechen, and a lot of English.” That was probably brutally murdering those two languages, but I knew enough to understand them, should the need arise—even if they were a bit rusty. And clearly the Self-Inserts were confining themselves to English speakers alone.

 

 

Walgrave continued, “Easy to do the latter in this universe, considering an American wrote it.”

 

 

“Who were you in your previous life?” I asked, avoiding the topic of what the French thought of Americans. No need to open that can of worms just yet.

 

 

“An architect employed for the French government. And you?” Walgrave responded.

 

 

“A database manager and a writer,” I answered, before finishing out, “and now I’m Lord Arryn.”

 

 

Walgrave rolled up his sleeves again as he said, “I guessed at the latter.”

 

 

_Sure you did._

 

 

“And how are the crown’s finances? Can we start building a canal between the Honeywine and the Mander? It would make traveling between Oldtown and the rest of the Reach _so_ much easier. After that one’s built mayhaps one between the Mander and the Blackwater? And then, after that long winter that’s coming, a big project across the Neck!”

 

 

_I wonder if he had an account on AH.com? He sure has the Sacrum Ordenim ad Portam mindset down to a tee. Next thing he’ll be telling me of how much we need to improve the sewers of King’s Landing—though that’s one project we could do almost immediately. Flea’s Bottom is one infected flea away from being a plague starter. Anyway, there had been some proudly French persons posting there, as I recalled, though all the ones I had personally encountered were ladies… but why shouldn’t a Self-Insert end up in the opposite gender that they were originally?_

 

 

Diplomatically I began, “I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here, a bit.”

 

 

 _I need to channel my mother right now._ A sudden shudder hit me that next moment when I tried to determine which mother.

 

 

“The treasury can’t be that bad yet! Littlefinger hasn’t taken power,” stated Walgrave bluntly.

 

 

I leaned forward in my seat, “I’m not talking about politics and finances. I’m talking about going on a building spree. We can’t just go around telling Lord Paramounts and various nobles that they need to invest heavily in infrastructure.”

 

 

“You have the ear of the King, no? We need to start immediately if we want to have any of it finished before the next Long Night!” exclaimed Walgrave rather over eagerly.

 

 

“Yes, but with the exception of the canal between the Mander and the Blackwater, the other canals benefit Oldtown and southern Reach lords, or the North.”

 

 

“That canal across the Neck would do more to foster trade than just in the North—it’d be of benefit to each of the coasts,” fired back Walgrave defensively.

 

 

“Believe me, I know the arguments and support the idea of building canals all across the realm, but you can’t just make the argument that trade’s good. A lot of lords, including my past life as an Arryn viewed trade as a less than _honorable_ business. A necessary evil, needed to be kept in its place.”

 

 

Walgrave sighed “So you’ve gone native… _merde_. When I heard you whistle _La Marseilles_ I thought, here might be someone else stuck on this grimdark fantasy mess of a planet, ready and willing to support a real… _revolution_ of the people.”

 

 

_God help me… I’m here with a French revolutionary. We’re so dead._

 

 

I tried to reassure Walgrave, “I’m all for making the lives of the smallfolk better, but in order to do that, we’ve got to convince the nobles and lords to dance to _our_ tune.”

 

 

“Aegon the V tried that and look where it got him. Or can’t you remember that much from your life as Arryn?” harrumphed Walgrave.

 

 

“Look, just because we can’t immediately start a building spree tomorrow, doesn’t mean we can’t work towards the goal of doing so. Before we can do that, we have to change their minds about what more trade can bring them, and get them to see their merchant class as something… well something that isn’t _Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme_.”

 

 

“You know Moliere?” asked Walgrave with a bit of surprise, his blond eyebrows rising rather high. That also seemed to take a lot of the defensiveness out of his tone of voice. Apparently I had triggered his national pride that the French were stereotyped to have. Either that, or I was getting lazy in character building wherever this self-insert was being written. But then again, Moliere was the French Shakespeare—or close enough. I mean, when you freeze the development of your language after your famous playwright, that has to count for something.

 

 

I pressed my point with my forefinger, “Yes, and I’d have you remember that play when trying to think of how to help me convince the noble lords that their merchants are worth investing in.”

 

 

Walgrave crossed his arms, again fumbling with his robes before rolling his eyes and saying, “Fine… but you know we’re just wasting precious years of good weather.”

 

 

“Luckily, we’ve been given more than enough time to see it through, given our new... ages,” I countered.

 

 

_Should we survive. Where is that wine? Surely it should have arrived by now. I need a drink._

 

 

“Have you ‘settled’ yet?” asked Walgrave.

 

 

I leaned in closer over my desk, “You mean, have I stopped getting younger?”

 

 

Walgrave confirmed with a nod of his head.

 

 

_Now time for the interesting subjects…_

 

 

“I haven’t.”

 

 

Walgrave uncrossed his arms and readjusted himself in his seat, “Well… this is only a guess, but whatever’s causing this, I think it has something to do with being around children.”

 

 

Immediately thinking of a counterargument, I said, “I thought that there weren’t any children allowed in the citadel.”

 

 

“What else would you call rather young acolytes?” countered Walgrave with a roll of his eyes.

 

 

“True enough. And what made you suspect it?” I urged.

 

 

Walgrave continued, now seeming more at ease in the room, “ _Oui_ , well, the younger the children you surround yourself with, the quicker you’ll lose your age. I was still in my sixties when I got on the barge that went up the Mander, and I'd thought myself settled then. That’s why the Maesters let me go in the first place, as they couldn’t decide whether I was actually getting younger, or if I was being cured of some disease unknown to them. That debate was settled for me when two mothers with newborns came on about a day or two past Highgarden. That night, I lost thirty years alone. It… well, it nearly got us kicked off the barge.”

 

 

 _Jasper… I was inserted the night Jasper was born, and have been dropping in age reliably after being near him._ Suddenly the idea of sending Jasper off to be with his Stark cousins didn’t sound half so bad. But somewhere else, another part of me recoiled at the idea of sending Jasper anywhere. _He is my son, it’d taken so long to get him, I can’t just send him away when he needs my protection!_

 

 

Walgrave coughed, bringing me out of my reverie.

 

 

“Oh… umm, right. And do you know what stopped it?”

 

 

“Well, _as I said_ , I don’t know. I was still around children the entire trip—they just changed every few miles or so. One morning I woke up four and ten… and four and ten I’ve been ever since. It just stopped. It no longer mattered if I was still around children, it just stopped.”

 

 

“And how old were you in France?” I asked. Mayhaps that had something to do with it—if he was 2 or 3 times fourteen years old.

 

 

“42,” answered Walgrave.

 

 

_That could be a Douglass Adams reference, or it could mean that I’ll be my old age divided by 3 when this stops which would make me… well, clearly in the single digits. Fuck. I could end up a nine year old when this is all said and done… a fucking nine year old, and a little bit more._

 

 

“What do we do now?” asked Walgrave with a narrowed glance, clearly trying to read me.

 

 

“Well, I had considered having you replace Grandmaester Pycelle. But, given your age… that might have to wait a few years.”

 

 

_To say the least._

 

 

“I can’t go back to the Citadel. They’d lock me away in rooms if I ever did get back there. And besides… Gormon already took over my classes years ago, and I’m not sure I could get back in without being accused of having stolen my chain somewhere along the road. You know how Martin’s world works!” Walgrave spoke plainly, something I couldn’t help but thank him for, mentally speaking that is.

 

 

“I suppose we could write the Citadel saying that the Grandmaester has grown… _tired_ of late, and requires assistance in performing his duties, which you, given your rejuvenated state, might be able to allay,” I proffered. It’d be the best I could settle for, for the moment, given how young he was. I could also sell it to Pycelle by him having someone else to poke and prod.

 

 

“ _Merci_!” exclaimed Walgrave and just then the wine finally arrived, with Pate in tow. We celebrated the new arrangement by writing the letter and drinking a toast, which I let Pate indulge in a drink as well.

 

 

That night, I decided to test Walgrave’s theory by inviting Harbert to see my son. Harbert seemed to have settled, or at least that’s what my eyes told me as he didn’t seem to be getting younger at any more rapid a pace.

 

 

“I’ve told you, Jon, I’ve been around enough children,” whined Harbert, as I opened the door to my own chambers where Jasper was sleeping. He was somewhat drunk, having challenged Robert to a drinking contest—a very unwise decision to make. One that the Queen had obviously frowned over. At this rate I should probably worry about assassins being sent against Harbert.

 

 

Somewhat hurt, I responded, “You’ve been here for a over a moon—and not once have you asked to see my son.”

 

 

He tried backing away from entering as he said, “Babes are a fine thing for parents to… fuss over. But for the rest of us… until they can do more than sleep, eat and shit, they’re not that interesting to see. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for ya, Jon. Really I am, but I don’t bother myself with a wetnurse’s work.”

 

 

I only responded by grabbing him by his yellow-gold doublet and dragging him into my chambers. I was going to find the answer to Walgrave’s hypothesis, one way or another.

 

 

Harbert took the hint and after being drugged into the room walked over to Jasper’s crib and looked down at my son.

 

 

“He’s got a squashed face… just like every other babe I’ve ever seen,” grumbled Harbert.

 

 

“Need I remind you of whose son this is?” I challenged.

 

 

“Fine, fine… he’s got a look of his father about him,” yawned Harbert, and I let him return to his chambers in peace, though I did tell two of my guards to follow him, just in case.

 

 

The results of the morning brought me younger still, though at the slower rate I had been growing accustomed to, probably a few moons off, mayhaps enough to call myself three and thirty now. Hopefully I was "settling". Harbert did not join me for breaking his fast, as he'd grown accustomed to doing. Wondering if he still was hung over, I sought him out in his assigned chambers.

 

 

Upon opening the chamber door I had heard the scurrying of feet and was at first greeted to a messy bed that seemed to have been left unattended to by the servants.

 

 

“Harbert?” I called into the room, closing the door behind me.

 

 

“J—jon?” asked a high pitched voice which made me stop where I was and had goosebumps rise out of my flesh. I turned to where I'd heard the voice and saw poking his head out from behind a folding screen the head of a brown-haired boy.

 

 

I stared, a dark dread taking over as I stared and saw Harbert at an age I’d never seen him at. His hair was still long, his face clearly rounded with boyhood, and his eyes seemed ever so slightly larger.

 

 

“How… how old?” I managed to ask when I found my words.

 

 

Harbert then stepped out from behind the screen and I saw he was still dressed in his shift, which now drug on the ground and hung off of one extremely skinny shoulder.

 

 

“One and ten namedays…” gulped Harbert as he stood there, trembling. Instinctively I crossed to the quivering boy that had been my friend and hugged him. Surprised by the show of affection at first, Harbert eventually responded in kind begging and despite himself, crying into my shoulder, “It’ll stop now, right Jon? Say it’ll stop now!”

 

 

Feeling rather guilty for his sudden drop in age, I assured him, “Aye, it’ll stop now.”

 

 

_I hope…_

 

 


	6. The Wasteland

“Keep your shield up!” thundered Robert, who was thoroughly pleased by the sudden shift in power between himself and Harbert.

 

 _Mayhaps a little too pleased_.

 

Harbert, now a skinny and small one and ten namedays boy was having trouble with his stick-like arms keeping his weighted wooden practice shield up for very long. Harbert was just lucky he was having to face the six namedays Joffrey, who was just beginning to learn how to handle wooden weapons, and Robert had been ever eager to provide the opportunity thanks to the decrease in size to promote Harbert as a new sparring partner for his son. Watching, I flinched as poor Harbert, obviously embarrassed and frustrated at being forced back to training with wooden weapons was still called to perform his duty to his house, as though there weren’t anything else to his life. Thankfully, I was glad Joffrey was still five namedays younger than Harbert, because I don’t think my friend could have handled the obnoxious bully that canon Joffrey would be on an equal footing with him all that well. I worried that Harbert might have to be concerned with getting even younger considering his contact with Joffrey, but to show my concerns would share my suspicions in front of the rest of the court—and I could not afford to have children surround myself or Harbert any more than was necessary out of some person’s malicious desire to “hurry up” the process. I did not plan for either of us to be on a wetnurse’s teat before we “settled” as Walgrave put it. Thankfully, I was glad that the Queen had not brought Tommen or Myrcella along with her to the practice yard, for they’d most likely have been more powerful influences than Joffrey would be, given their extreme youth. I was in no rush losing the one in my one and thirty namedays, not when my other age of eight and twenty was so close.

 

The Queen herself watched from a wooden chair beneath a red and gold pavilion with two red cloaks on either side of her. She had fussed having the thing set up so that she could watch her boy be trained. The Kingsguard on duty with Robert was Ser Jaime, and he watched with a feigned bored interest standing beside his twin.

 

“He’s hitting him too hard,” offered Cersei from her shaded seat.

 

“A few knocks about the head won’t hurt him much,” assured Jaime.

 

“It didn’t do me any damage, now didn’t it Jon?” asked Robert.

 

“No,” I answered automatically.

 

“That’s perfectly debatable,” muttered Cersei rather loudly.

 

Harbert was clearly trying to adjust to his younger body and at a loss as his thin arms were too short and weak for what he wanted to do half the time, and his legs and feet a bit too long and big, causing Harbert to trip up his own footwork and appear an awkward mess of limbs in the training yard.

 

“Footwork’s sloppy,” shouted Robert—which earned a few laughs from Ser Aron Santagar’s squire—Willam Wells, who Joffrey would have originally been set to face, had Harbert not lost so many years. The clothes that Harbert wore were ill fitting and borrowed from Willam whom he was now just a tad younger than. The Dornish squire leaned against the fence of the practice yard with a rather stupid smirk upon his face, watching Harbert flub as he did.

 

“I know!” shouted Harbert to Robert as he parried Joffrey’s strike.

 

“A _boy_ should know better than to yell at his King like that!” spat Cersei with a mock chivalry that had the intended effect of causing Harbert to over swing, affording Joffrey the opportunity to thrust his shoulder into Harbert—knocking him flat on his back.

 

“Beg for mercy!” shouted Joffrey as he placed his wooden sword right at Harbert’s neck, clearly saying something he had little idea of what it meant. I recalled some tale I had heard from my nursemaid of the First Andal Knights doing battle with some First Men warrior who said the exact same words in the song. Joffrey likely had heard the tale and that was the most memorable part in his small mind.

 

“Bugger off!” snapped Harbert, who with a shove, knocked Joffrey over, got up, leaving his wooden sword and shield on the ground and stomped out of the yard much like the petulant child he looked. I wanted to follow, but thought that doing so immediately might upset Harbert further, so I gave my friend some time to himself before pursuing after him—taking note that he’d retreated to the shaded corner of the courtyard where we’d shared his pipe the day of his arrival.

 

Jaime immediately rose and swooped in to pick Joffrey up off the ground where he’d settled. Joffrey whined and cried rather loudly and harshly about being pushed, reminding me of a time when I’d embarrassed myself at a similar age and yelled for well over an hour in our front yard in an attempt to affect the attentions of my parents and neighbors… only to be ignored. I’d never tried that again after that little spell and still occasionally twinged in embarassment at the memory of the idiotic child I’d been. Unfortunately Joffrey’s kin were not of that school of parenting that encouraged self-reflection.

 

Cersei was already screeching “Kin or no kin, that _boy_ should be punished!”

 

“You do my friend wrong to call for such harsh treatment,” I countered.

 

Cersei’s head snapped immediately to me in surprise before Joffrey’s wailing pulled her attention back to her cub.

 

Robert adopted a patronizing tone and said to Joffrey, “Now let me see where you’re hurt.”

 

Joffrey held out his hands which had braced his fall to his assumed father while Ser Jaime brushed the dirt off his clothes. The heels of the prince’s hands were now scraped with brush burns that tore up the soft flesh of his hands.

 

“Joffrey didn’t get more than a few scratches. Scratches’ll do the boy some good. They’ll toughen his hands and help ready him for swinging an actual sword one day,” dismissed Robert, already tired of the argument that was to come.

 

Cersei beckoned for Joffrey to come to her, and Joffrey broke away from Ser Jaime to rush to the waiting arms of his mother.

  
I gave Robert a meaningful look then. His grace sighed and added, “And I’ll hear no more talk about punishing Harbert for what boys do to each other in practice yards all the time.”  
  
Feeling it necessary to drive the point home, I added, “He may look like a boy, but he has the mind of a man still.”

Cersei scoffed as she held Joffrey closer to her bosom, “Ser Harbert may have the mind of a man, but he has been _blessed_ by the Gods with the body of a boy. The world will not treat him according to what his mind is capable of, so he should learn what it means to be treated as he appears.”

 

I stared at Cersei, surprised for a brief moment at her insight before reminding myself of her chapters from _A Feast for Crows_ , that she likely half considered her own position as woman being similar.

 

“A great disservice the world does to judge a person, be they man, woman, or child for their outermost habits instead of their inner mettle,” I proffered.

 

That once again drew the attention of the Queen, who I had stared at while speaking. She met my eyes and I knew my intended point had hit home.

 

I then felt it had been long enough for Harbert to have his cry. “If you’d excuse me your graces, I’d see to Ser Harbert.”

 

“Lord Arryn!” called out Ser Jaime as I had taken my first few steps towards the corner that Harbert had taken to sulking.

 

“Aye?” I asked as Ser Jaime approached. The young blonde was smirking as though he had the best joke in mind.

 

Ser Jaime spoke in a hushed tone as though he were conveying some secret, “I would not call Harbert a Ser, my lord. He quite obviously can barely fight anymore, and what good is a knight who cannot wield a sword?”

 

“Indeed? I wonder Ser Jaime if you were to think the same if a knight lost their sword hand. Would they still be a Ser then?” I responded, not able to resist the tease—even though it’d only be my own private joke most likely.

 

“Of course! A knight is only as good as his sword hand,” he answered, as I knew he would.

 

“Pity. And here I thought you valued the title more highly,” was my only response before turning and departing, leaving the bemused lion in my tailwind.

 

I found Harbert doing his best to rub away what tears were treacherously running down his puffy cheeks from his eyes. I didn’t move to calm or comfort Harbert then although it pained me to see my friend so obviously hurt and confused. I feared he might take that action in public a setting as though I’d “adopted” him in a fatherly manner. So for the moment, I leaned my back against the opposite wall from where he’d sat and eased myself down to his level and simply sat there in silence, waiting for him to be ready to tell me what it was he felt comfortable saying. If anything this would be good practice to see if this might work raising my own son, and any future children I might have—should I remain old enough to have any. I’d be here for them, ready and willing to listen, but waiting for them to tell me what they needed from me.

 

“I’m being silly, crying like a babe, I know it, but… I can’t help it,” admitted Harbert after we’d sat there in silence for long enough.

 

“It’s not silly,” I retorted, knowing that I was contradicting everything our fathers had ever told us about how men were supposed to behave.

 

 _“Chin up, and wipe those tears from your eyes! Blubbering will get you nowhere with me or any other man, and least of all it won’t earn you any respect!”_ He recalled the ever wise Lord Jasper snapping at him once when he’d been told that Rowena and Edmun were to stay behind at the Gates of the Moon one spring. _Fuck father_.

 

“That’s bull and you know it,” answered Harbert sadly.

 

“Mayhaps it might be, a little, but then what about this situation isn’t a tad silly? I mean, a boy of six namedays crying over a few scrapes on his hands? What isn’t silly about that?” I asked, hoping the change of subject might help Harbert some.

 

“He’s really crying about a few scraped hands?” asked Harbert incredulously.

 

“Aye. That caterwauling you just heard? That was him begging for his mother.”

 

Harbert gave a small, half-hearted laugh and said, “That’s what it was about? And here I thought that I might’ve… done something worse…”

 

“If you’d done worse, the Queen’d have joined her son,” I added, hoping to keep the tone merry and bright.

 

“I suppose so,” admitted Harbert with a small smile.

 

Harbert wasn’t completely better, but our friendship remained which was important to the part of me that was Jon. And to some extent I felt the guilt I’d been feeling over not visiting Harbert during his descent into bedridden senility pass, though not completely depart. Nothing would ever change that I’d abandoned my friend the first time because his great nephew had had greater need of me—this time I wouldn’t make that same mistake.

 

When Harbert was ready to return to the practice yard, the royal family had already departed and servants were in the process of packing up the pavilion that had been erected for the Queen.

 

“Where has his grace gone?” I inquired of Ser Aron who was now instructing Willam Wells.

 

“There’s been a meeting of the small council that’s been called. I’d have thought you’d have known?” answered Ser Aron before proceeding to return to instructing his squire. I left Harbert in the care of Ser Aron and his squire. A good fight would help Harbert more than I could for the nonce.

 

_A meeting that no one thought to tell me about? This does not bode well._

 

And so I was right, for as I approached the door to the Small Hall where the Small Council met, I was met with my own name.

 

It was Pycelle’s voice, “Lord Arryn has been more than a capable Hand, your grace. I’ve seen many lesser men than he in my time occupy the position. But this matter about his youthening must be considered with the utmost seriousness. Already two of the nine ‘blessed’ individuals as Lord Arryn is apt to call them, have returned to childhood. What’s to say that Lord Arryn won’t himself stop there?”

 

And then Varys spoke, “The Grandmaester is perfectly correct to worry. Septa Rosa of the Sandy Sept I am told has been reduced to a girl who’s yet to have her first moon’s blood at two and ten namedays.”

 

_Fuck, they’re tag teaming._

 

Robert blustered, “Jon’s a good man. No matter his age, he’d do the job better than I could.”

 

Varys pressed on, “Say Lord Arryn should end up three and ten do you truly think a boy of such a young age could be taken seriously as Hand of the King?”

 

Pycelle added to this, “Only one man was able to govern the Seven Kingdoms in his extreme youth—and it’s not every lord who could do so. Lord Arryn is a fine man, but I wouldn’t say he has the… uh… mettle of such a man as that.”

 

At this point I made a point to push the door open and enter the Small Hall. Also in attendance was Stannis and Ser Barristan. Stannis, who had recently returned from Dragonstone eyed me with disbelief as he always did. No doubt I was causing rather intense debates in that atheistic mind of his.

 

“At last, Jon, I thought you’d never get here!” exclaimed Robert with such enthusiasm.

 

“I needed to see to your great uncle, your grace,” I answered, honestly as I took my seat at the table.

 

At this Stannis took the opportunity to speak. “Speaking of Harbert. We must needs be decided of what’s to be done about him.”

 

“Must we?” asked Robert bemusedly.

 

Stannis was logical in his approach, “Considering his age, he must be given to a proper guardian until he is once again a man grown—if only for the security of our house and his own protection.”

 

Robert’s mood darkened as he met his brother’s eyes, “If you’re talking about sending our Great Uncle, the man who raised us, off to some far off corner of Westeros—!”

 

“House Fell is _his mother’s_ house, and one which we could stand to remind of our blood ties with, given their actions in the late rebellion” countered Stannis coolly.

 

Robert didn’t respond beyond blowing air out in a huffy manner—a clear sign that he thought Stannis had made a point he couldn’t easily refute.

 

“He is old enough to squire with a knight, and since he is in need of training once again, why not solve two problems in one swoop? Lord Fell himself might be inclined to take him as a squire, that would be best course of action, your grace,” piped in Ser Barristan diplomatically.

 

I had no doubt that Stannis and Ser Barristan both meant well in their own ways, but I couldn’t help but feel rather unnerved with how easily they shunted Harbert into just yet another piece to be used for the betterment of House Baratheon and just another sword in need of a trip to the whetstone for sharpening. It made me feel rather angry that neither really considered the needs of Harbert beyond his blood ties or swordsmanship.

 

“He’s already been knighted, Barristan. There’s no need to squire him out a second time,” objected Robert.

 

“You just said yourself, your grace that his skill in the practice yard has diminished with his renewed youth,” reminded Varys.

 

“And the young Prince Joffrey did defeat him,” chirped Pycelle rather proudly, as though he were Joffrey’s grandfather.

 

I had to say something. I wasn’t going to fail my friend a third time.

 

“If he’s to be squired, then I shall take him as one,” I said without forethought.

 

The looks I received from the rest of the small council told me everything I needed to know. Ser Barristan gave a wane smile of one hoping for the best, but expecting the worst. Stannis scowled slightly—not doubt his teeth were grinding again. Varys giggled, as though he knew a secret that he thought I didn’t. And Pycelle looked as though the entire notion were ludicrous to say the least.

 

“Sounds like a fine plan to me.” Robert declared, eager to see the topic put to rest no doubt.

 

“And what of your current squire? Mandon Moore, I believe?” questioned Barristan.

 

I answered, “Mandon is now old enough to receive his knighthood—given his actions in the Greyjoy Rebellion. Mayhaps a spot on the Kingsguard, even, Ser Barristan?”

 

“We are in need of a new brother since the death of Ser Rennold,” admitted Ser Barristan, he then asked, “But does Mandon wish to become a Kingsguard?”

 

“He’s talked with me often enough of donning a white cloak,” I admitted, recalling several conversations with him in the past.

 

“I’d be glad to have the boy if he’s that willing. If that’s all—” started Robert, but I interrupted him this time.

 

“I am happy to report that the repairs to the Tower of the Hand are continuing better than expected, your grace.”

 

Varys glared at me. Well, there was his motivation for wanting me gone. But that didn’t explain the assassin in the first place…

 

“Good,” acknowledged Robert, as if expecting more.  
  
I took over at this point from Robert, prompting “Ser Barristan, is there any word on where that assassin got that dagger from?”

 

Ser Barristan admitted, “Well, considering it was castle forged steel, I’d hardly say that he was one of the smallfolk.”

 

“Did you find the blacksmith’s mark?” Robert asked, taking me by surprise the moment he’d suggested it.

 

“I did and passed it on to Lord Varys,” answered Ser Barristan dutifully.

 

Varys almost looked genuinely upset. Was it because he was so close to being caught? The eunuch spoke, “My little birds tell me that the mark doesn’t belong to any blacksmith in King’s Landing, but beyond there—it will take time to track down from where the dagger was forged.”

 

Pycelle interrupted then, “And even so, the dagger’s being forged where it was would likely have little meaning, overall. Say the assassin got it off a dead man, or won it in a wager. Who smelt the iron would have no knowledge of all the places and people that that knife has been since his forge.”

 

He had a point. I didn’t like it, but I had to give it to him. Still, if there was a chance, however slim…

 

“And now, if there’s nothing else to discuss—” began Robert as he stood, eager to be out of the council.

 

“There is your grace, concerning the new, ah, assistant I’ve been sent by the citadel. Considering his rank as an archmaester, I believe him to be far overqualified for such a post, and besides, I am not so frail of health as to require that much assistance and,” began Pycelle.

 

I interjected here, “As far as I understood it, Grandmaester, he’d taken the position upon hearing how difficult it has become for you to handle the pressures of your responsibilities considering your infirmities. Why I recall one council meeting where you had to unfurl every piece of parchment you’d brought along and spend time positioning them just so far or close from your eyes simply so you could determine which was the most relevant to our topic of discussion.”

 

_You can’t have it both ways without paying the consequences._

 

“I am perfectly fine, my Lord Hand. I am mayhaps a bit slower at my tasks, but I am still fully capable of performing them!” insisted Pycelle with a noted frown.

 

Yeah, it was long past time to get rid of the old windbag. Neither of us is going to sleep soundly until the other’s gone at this point. Mayhaps Walgrave could catch him with a whore in his bed like Tyrion did? _No, that’d likely make Robert respect him more… unless he was telling those whores something they shouldn’t know?_ In any case I should see if Walgrave could keep an eye on him all the same.

 

“The archmaester is here, Grandmaester. Use him or don’t as you choose,” declared Robert before departing the room entirely.

 

Stannis approached me not long after I’d stood and returned my chair back to its place at the weirwood table. Ser Barristan had already followed Robert out the door with Varys not far behind. The only one who seemed to take his time poking was Pycelle. _We discuss the man’s perceived capabilities on the small council, and then he continues act feebler than he really is? Seven Hells is that man dumb?_

 

I had to admit, Stannis got to the point quickly. “You take great interest in my great uncle, Lord Arryn.”

 

“Aye. He’s been my friend since ere you were born. A brother in spirit, if not blood,” I reminded him.

 

“And yet you never visited him while he was infirm at Storm’s End, except for that one trip to Dorne,” recalled Stannis.

 

“A mistake I am attempting to correct now,” I answered simply. Well, that was mostly the truth.

 

Stannis frowned, lines furrowing on his head before he continued, “I’m sure he appreciates such attentions, but do not let those sentiments blind you, Lord Arryn. My great uncle is a Baratheon, and his second future should be decided by Baratheons.”

 

I bit my cheek to keep from saying that Robert had already decided on behalf of House Baratheon. I would need Stannis if I was going to get rid of Pycelle, Varys, and Cersei. I was going to need him badly now that Harbert would be too young to assist in the way I’d imagined. Instead I met his eyes, which only caused him to deepen his gaze and grind his teeth.

 

“My aim is simply to assist House Baratheon in this matter, not usurp its role. Mayhaps Harbert might like to be with his mother’s kinfolk more than myself, and Robert can always be persuaded to think another way if Harbert does decide differently. But I won’t know until I pose that question to him. And I would have him decide it.” I gave bluntly.

 

“Fair enough,” was Stannis’ only reply before he too took his parchments and left the small hall.

 

When I returned to the Tower of the Hand, I informed Erasmys to prepare a chamber not far from mine for Harbert. If he was to be my squire, the least I could do would be to get him under my protection and away from whatever assassins might lurk waiting for him now that he was young… and vulnerable.

 

When I delivered the news to Harbert, he took it rather badly. If badly can be defined by throwing his old boot that was too big for his foot across the room and breaking the Myrish glass. A raised eyebrow was all that Harbert was going to get out of me for that.

 

“So, father falcon swoops in to protect his adopted chick,” huffed Harbert.

 

“That’s not what this is at all,” I countered, doing my best to remain calm and stoic. Getting angry now wouldn’t help either of us.

 

Harbert stomped his foot in protest, “You’re not my father! No one is… no one could replace him. People say Robert is my father come again—Robert is a pale shadow of my father! And you? You wouldn’t even begin to—”

 

“Before you say something you’ll likely regret, may I explain my actions? Or are you both judge and jury?”

 

“Judge and jury?” questioned Harbert, clearly confused.

 

“Are you Lord and Master?” I corrected.

 

“I’ve never had the opportunity to be either!” snapped Harbert.

 

“No, you never did have control of your own destiny. You were always subject to the whims and responsibilities to your family,” I said, hoping to show that I _did_ understand better than he thought.

 

“And now I’m subject to yours, my lord,” spat Harbert.

 

I couldn’t help but counter, “If that’s how well you know me—”

 

He couldn’t help but interrupt, “Know you? I thought I knew you! When you last came to Storm’s End we talked about what we’d do when I’d recovered enough to get out of bed, remember?”

 

“Aye,” I admitted, the conversation briefly flickering through my mind, _“We’ll ride out to the Kingswood one day to hunt, and get so drunk we’ll hardly bring anything home...”_

 

But other duties and responsibilities had cropped up. The need for stabilizing King’s Landing and the Crownlands in the aftermath of the war and the sack of the city, Lysa’s miscarriages, Robert’s increasing disinterest in ruling, the financial blunders of his early years, the Greyjoy rebellion. All of it had taken his full attention and energy, and word of Harbert’s unlikelihood to recover well enough to travel outside of his sickroom had made wanting to visit him something to put off until he was “better” with the subconscious understanding that Harbert was most likely not going to get better… until he did when he regained his youth, and then some.

 

As he continued, tears were beginning to well up at the corner of his eyes, “And you never came back. Do you know how lonely it is to be tied to a bed all day? How bloody boring it is? To have no company but a woman who’s disgusted by you because she has to change your small clothes as often as not because you can’t even make it to a bloody chamber pot half the time? To be ignored and forgotten by your family… left to rot and die, and everyone wondering why you haven’t already done so…”

 

_That could have been either of my parents saying that, in the other world… Gods help him._

 

“Harbert…” I began, not knowing how to tell him that I knew. That I knew and was ashamed, so very much ashamed. “It’s why I took you to squire… to try and make amends… if you don’t want to, you can always ask the King for something more amenable.”

 

Harbert was silent for a long, while. And then he rubbed his eyes and face with the sleeve of his doublet before he said simply, “I’ll have my things in the chamber, my lord… will you be needing my services this eve?”

 

“What? No, I can manage myself.”

 

Harbert nodded slowly and then said, “Very well, my lord.”

 

I stood there, stunned by the reaction.

 

“Is there something else, my lord?” he asked when I had stood there for a while thereafter.

 

I shook my head and hardly in the proper state of mind to call him out on his newest charade and fearing that it would do little good to do so anyway. I left his old chambers and returned to the Tower of the Hand. As I entered the tower, I found Walgrave waiting for me, with a small stack of letters in his hand.

 

“Did all of those arrive today?” I asked, stunned at the sight of so thick a pile as we ascended the steps to my solar.

 

“No, Pycelle hoards the letters the ravens bring. He opens them first, reads them, and then reseals them before handing them out when he sees fit. Since he has very little for me to do, I decided to mess with his system by delivering these to you, unopened by him,” answered Walgrave.

 

“Don’t underestimate, Pycelle. The man hasn’t remained Grandmaester for this long without having some skill and wit,” I cautioned as we approached the floor my solar was on.

 

Walgrave was almost sage like in his response, which was only slightly eerie coming from a boy of four and ten, “He knows who to grovel to keep his neck, and when to switch allegiances. If you want him to stop challenging you, show yourself to be a strong source of power that he can attach his chain to.”

 

“Rather hard to do that when I keep losing distinction along with my age. Besides I’d rather catch him off guard, like Tyrion did,” I hinted to Walgrave.

 

Walgrave eyed me suspiciously and then said as we came to the door of my solar, “Be careful, my lord. For if I had been anyone else I’d have seen that as a threat.”

 

“Excuse me?” I asked, surprised by his sudden heel turn.

 

“ _Pardonne-moi._ I am still here because Pycelle needs an assistant due to his infirmities. Remove Pycelle, and my position is eliminated, and seeing as I am still too young to replace him as Grandmaester immediately upon his removal, the question of my survival would be brought into the fore once again. Were I anybody else, I’d have begun to plot against you, my lord.”

 

 _Fuck. He was right. I can’t get rid of Pycelle so soon now. Seven Hells_.

 

“Luckily, I haven’t yet been tempted into _aller en natif_ , just yet. Oh, and I look forward to hearing the response from Lords Hoster and Mace—as well as the Footleys, Farings, Chelsteads, Rollingfords, Mallerys, Follards, Whents, Thornes, Byrchs, Lollistans, Chytterings, Wodes and Gaunts on the proposed canal routes.”

 

“You read my letters?” I remarked, though not so surprised. I had drawn up the suggestion of potential project plans to begin working towards construction following the coming winter, with money for the project being raised and put aside from taxes now in preparation for the project. The two canal routes suggested were designed to tie the Mander and Blackwater river systems together and thus bind the northern Reach, southern Riverlands, and western Crownlands together more firmly, as well as tie together the two of the three most highly commercial river systems together, and ease transportation through the three regions. In the suggestion I made sure to make plain that the proposal would be years in the making, and likely boost taxes, tolls, and tariffs into the lords’ coffers, should they contribute to its financing.  
  
The longer project proposed going north from Tumbleton to House Rollingford’s seat where the Gold Road and Blackwater crossed and then dredging the Eastern branch of the Blackwater all the way up to the God’s Eye. Over half the route would simply be dredging the river itself. Such a route would turn Harrenhal, Rollingford, and Tumbleton into the three gateways between the Riverlands, Reach and Crownlands. For that alone, Hoster and Mace might refuse the plan, unless of course they might see fit to wed family members to these lords to act as a check on their power and loyalty. Though Edmure would likely inherit Harrenhal from his mother, given the Whent family was nearly extinct—and in fact Hoster might make it a preliminary requirement to even agreeing to the plan. The Crownlords would obey Robert who would likely balk at the project until I suggested how much it would bring to the treasury in tolls alone—let alone tariffs. Eventually I hoped to make a similar suggestion between the God’s Eye and the Trident, with the additional branch connecting to the Trident just west of the Ruby Ford and Lord Harroway’s Town. But that would be a harder construction and would likely be up to Edmure to commission. The reason I had made my suggestion of tying the Reach, Riverlands, and Crownlands together as I did was wholly financial. With so many lords bound to gain from the creation of the canal, the cost could be shared by them all and the crown much more easily. But these plans were years and years down the pipe most likely, though to see the way Walgrave was grinning like an idiot, one would think he was about to announce the canal’s official opening before this very conversation was through. At least it kept him happy though, which was my true objective in this. I had no idea what the French engineer would do, but if such a project made the man-boy happy, then let him dream on it.

 

I didn’t expect much to come from these letters in truth. As the Starks were fond of saying, winter was coming and whatever money could be set aside would likely be spent on food if the Second Long Night did occur. And who’s to say that these lords or their families would even survive or be in charge after the Second Long Night had come to pass? However what it would do is get the two fertile regions of Westeros potentially more interested in bridging the gaps between them in preparation for such a project. One could easily foresee marriage alliances occurring, trade deals, and other such binding contracts. And if such preparations and alliances were made, then lords would be far less willing to wish to break them should a war come. The Reach and the Riverlands tied together could support one another—even if it only was through smaller houses that should have more in common with one another than with their lords paramount many leagues away.

 

“Pycelle did. He’s pulled out family trees of all those lords trying to decide which lord along the canal routes has a daughter young enough that you’re looking to marry to your son. _Le fou!_ As though that is any reason you would need to consider for building a canal!” mocked Walgrave.

 

I’d have chided Walgrave for his volume then, but considering I’d pretty much walled up any and all hiding spots into the Tower of the Hand, I let it slide. Who but my own people could hear such talk? And then I wondered just how much my own people talked.

 

“We shouldn’t be discussing such matters so publicly,” I reminded him.

 

“True, in any case, I hope you take a look at _all_ the letters, my lord. _Bonne journée._ ”

 

_Okay, either he’s getting sloppy about maintaining appearances, or my writing is starting to dive into the offensive territory for national stereotypes._

 

I entered my solar, shuffling through my letters, when one of them caught my eye—it being addressed to Mandon Moore and with nondescript black wax. Strange. Mandon never received ravens. Curiosity getting the better of me, I did my best to open the letter without breaking the seal in twain, and found myself rewarded from my due caution.

 

Opening the letter I was shocked to find it a list of… laundry and its cost at cleaning:  
  
_Tunic_  
Surcoat  
Doublet  
Smallclothes  
Breeches

_2 Moons 4 Stars_

It had to be a laundry list, though I knew for a fact that services such as a launderer weren’t typically billed by raven at all. Typically a washer woman would be hired and the lady of the castle would arrange things with her—or a squire if a lord or knight was away from home. Mayhaps this was a bill of purchase? But then why wouldn’t this come with the garments? And the cost looked far too low to be purchasing all this. A Moon and three stars?! That copper coinage wouldn’t pay for the tunic, let alone a tunic and several other pieces of garments. Laundry costs was the only thing that made sense and that didn’t make a lick of sense given how laundry was done in Westeros.

 

But this reminds me of something… but what? Oh wait, Austen! Of course, how could I forget the part in _Northanger Abbey_ when Catherine is hunting through her room hoping to find some hidden compartment full of letters detailing about the supposed murder she suspected having taken place within the abbey walls. And she found a hidden compartment in the chest of drawers in her room—only for it to be filled with laundry lists. Laundry lists that had something to do with another issue in the family separate entirely from the supposed murder Catherine suspected entirely, but were still important.

 

That made me think for a moment. If I were writing a self-insert story with myself trapped in Westeros, I’d leave clues that I’d be predisposed to “get” and likely have to over explain in order to have the audience “get” them most likely. That must mean this is a clue… a clue to what? I don’t know—most likely not the obvious. Unless of course, what looks like a laundry list isn’t a laundry list at all, and it’s a ciphered message. But then I ran through all the ciphers that I knew in my head and realized that under them, the message would look more like a page of incomprehensible gibberish. And besides it was the Renaissance inspired Elizabethans who had delighted in all such manner of puzzles. Meanwhile I was stuck with the equivalent of their grandfather’s grandfathers, if Shakespeare’s family tree were to be taken as normal, and Robert’s generation the one I was aiming for. But that didn’t mean that there couldn’t be a hidden message here, just hidden in plain sight.

 

I’ll have to watch my squire more carefully… and gods, I just recommended him for a white cloak. I needs figure this out before that comes to pass. I suppose I could always drag him in here and threaten him. No, Mandon was too stoical for that. I could get him drunk enough to talk and then threaten him while his tongue is loose and his emotions are better than him.

 

And so I arranged things for that evening when I knew Mandon was slated to serve me my meal along with Harbert in attendance. Harbert sat there sullenly more playing with his food like the child he looked than . Upon sitting down for the meal of roast boar, I invited Mandon to sit and eat with us.

 

“I have some good news, Mandon. Please sit and eat with us—no need to wait until after.”

 

“What is it, my lord?” asked the eight and ten nameday squire.

 

“I have recommended you to Ser Barristan for a white cloak.”

 

At once the resigned face of Mandon seemed to come alive with emotion—his pale grey eyes widening and the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, and then immediately he corrected himself as if it were pulling back on a mask that had threatened to slip off. I poured the wine, a rather sour Dornish red, but with plenty of potency, and prepared to offer it to Mandon.

 

“Such would be my pleasure, my lord.”

 

“You have been a good squire, Mandon, always attentive to my needs, and such should not go without reward. Drink.” I said offering Mandon

 

“Yes, my lord,” answered Mandon who took the cup from my hand and held it up at a level to chink the cups together in a toast which I joined saying a “to the White Cloak”. Mandon downed the wine immediately as a show of respect and graciousness for the news, while I mimed drinking more than a small swallow. A little would do more than enough damage for myself. All the while Harbert eyed the actions between myself and Mandon curiously, though he pretended to be more interested in the food on his plate he was arranging.

 

“Thirsty?” I commented, swiftly taking the cup from where Mandon had set it down and refilling it.

 

“You are more than generous, my lord.”

 

“I would have another toast made, in honor of my son,” and Mandon was quick to oblige. And he obliged a third one as well, in honor of Harbert’s squiring, though that one he was much slower to drink to. I meanwhile finished my first and what I planned to be only cup of wine with that third toast.

 

“Now, tell me again of what you did three namedays ago in the Greyjoy rebellion I sent you off to serving Ser Barristan. Harbert here hasn’t heard a word of that particular war, and I’m sure he’d be eager to hear of your… exploits.” I invited, hoping that doing so would go on long enough for the wine to settle into his system.

 

Mandon was a quiet young man, more so than even Ned had been at his age, but now he uncharacteristically blushed, the red of his cheeks standing out almost prominently against his pale complexion and he began to talk of beating the Ironborn back into the sea at Seaguard and the storming Pyke. He seemed to forget that Harbert had but a few days ago been a man near twice his age, for Mandon stopped every so often to try and explain something to Harbert as though he really were a boy of one and ten. At these intervals Harbert frowned and grumbled, but largely did not interfere. I meanwhile sat back and gave little commentary, merely observing Mandon as his reserved mask slipped off further and further the more he talked, until I thought it likely he was now fully in his cups, and I was free to make my move.

 

“Grandmaester Pycelle brought a letter to my attention. He has a nasty habit of opening other people’s ravens I am sad to say—something I’m hoping that Archmaester Walgrave can cure him of—but he considered the deal you made at purchasing a tunic, surcoat, doublet, small clothes, and breeches all for the cost of a moon and a few stars to be a rather good deal that he wondered if your secret at getting the dyers and cloth makers down to such a price was worth knowing.”

 

I had caught Mandon completely off guard with my question, and the sudden break in his facial mask showed it.

 

Mandon fumbled with his words, “My lord, I um, can explain.”

 

“I cannot believe that a future whitecloak such as yourself would dare belong to something untoward.” I hinted.

“Do you doubt my honor?” grumbled Mandon.

 

I snorted, “This gives me more than enough cause to do so, and I am sure it would give Ser Barristan more so. I would hate to have this be the cause of your loss of a potential white cloak.”

  
Mandon nearly stood, insisting, “No! I, will explain everything.”

 

I stared at him intensely, not letting him out of my sight before saying, “I want the entire truth from you, Mandon—do so and you may ascend to the whitecloaks as though this conversation never happened. Deal with me falsely, and I will be sure that your name will bring nothing but shame and remorse to your family for many generations to come.

 

At this Mandon broke, any steel behind his pale grey eyes collapsing as he set his elbows upon the table and ran his fingers through his hair with obvious worry.

 

“It’s my family, my lord… he, he bought their debts and mine.”

 

Firmly I said, “You’re going to have to be more succinct than that.

 

Were MAndon a more emotional man, he might have cried, but instead this was delivered straightly, “Baelish. He runs the Custom House in Gulltown, and has a brothel on the side.”

 

“Baelish bought you and your family’s debts did he?” I asked, unsurprised by this.

 

Mandon admitted shamefacedly, “Aye… my brother has a liking for gambling and wagers, and wins far less often than he loses.”

 

“And what has he threatened you into doing for him?”

 

“Pass along information,” answered Mandon, unable to look me in the eye as he said it.

 

“About myself?” I boomed.

 

“No, my lord. About others he knows here in the city. He never asked me about you,” insisted the young man all too quickly.

 

“Mandon…” I bellowed rising, catching Mandon flinch in his seat and meeting his eyes from on high.

 

“Never often… once or twice, when the Lady Lysa was too sick, or confined in her chambers to write herself,” Mandon said, in a weak frail voice.

 

“What kind of information?” I demanded.

 

“How your lady wife fared, and whether a child had been born yet. That is all. Never anything about you, my lord.” This time I believed him.

 

“And I assume this list is a communication in code?” I asked.

 

“Aye…” admitted Mandon sourly.

 

“How do you read it?” I asked, sticking the note right under his face.

 

Mandon looked at the paper and said “The message is hidden between the second and fourth letters in each word and then discount the extra letters.”

 

I thanked Mandon and then said, “You’re going to keep in contact with Baelish for the nonce. I will see what information you pass along to either him or to others in his employ, as well as all previous information you sent to him. In exchange, I will buy out both yours and your family’s debts and hold them.”

 

At word of that Mandon’s head raised in surprise. “T—thank you my lord.”

 

“And hold them myself,” I clarified.

 

After a moment of silence he nodded and then asked, “And my white cloak, my lord?”

 

“That will come, when I have that mockingbird in a cage.”

 

Mandon looked puzzled for a moment, and then asked, “How did you know?”

 

“What? I asked.

 

“That he likes to call himself a mockingbird…” explained Mandon, still stuck in the reverie of awe.

 

I stated firmly, “You are not the only source of information I have on Baelish, you are just the latest.”

 

I dismissed him to his chamber further up in the tower and poured myself another cup of wine.

 

“I’d have sliced him open from balls to neck,” muttered Harbert as he at long last took a small bite of his food and cringed as he did so.

 

I took a swallow from the sour Dornish red and said, “He’s but a light horseman in a greater game of Cyvasse.”

 

Harbert was simple, and to the point, “He’s betrayed you once, he’ll do it again.”

 

Setting the cup down, I turned to my regressed friend and said, “Which is why I’m not just paying off his family’s debts entirely. He obviously cares deeply for his family, more than he shows. And whoever holds their fate, he’ll be as loyal to them as need be. I’ll need to speak with the Moores about their heir’s fiscal habits. Mayhaps a Braavosi banker should accompany me when I do.”

 

Harbert looked at me as though I’d grown a second head.

 

“What?” I asked as he sat there with his mouth as open as a cow chewing cud.

 

“I truly didn’t know you… did I?” he asked.

 

Reminding myself of the countless hours I poured over arranging the loans between the crown and the Lannisters and the crown and the Faith, I answer him, “I’ve had to do a lot to keep these Seven Kingdoms together… not all of which I’m proud of, or is always that honorable… but the Seven Kingdoms remain and the peace is maintained. And I would rather have that mockingbird’s head than an indebted squire’s.”

 

“Why?” asked Harbert, intensely curious.

 

_Because he’s Littlefinger, and he must die. That is the rule of all self-inserts. Plan canals and kill Littlefinger for whatever excuse you can come up with. After satiating the readers of that, you’re free to do as you wish._

 

Instead I decided to quote Varys, “Because he would see these Seven Kingdoms burn if he could be but king of the ashes—and that I will not allow.”

 

Harbert nodded, though seemingly still confused. “Then end him, Jon. End him and be done with it.”

 

The room was beginning to feel rather warm, and my eyes were growing rather leaden. But I gathered enough energy to say firmly, “I intend to.”

 

_I hope that the scene ends there if this is being written, it’d be a waste of an ending line to just simply continue after saying that._

 

Harbert nodded and stood to clear away the dishes then, setting them aside for the servants to clear later. I sat there finishing my wine and when Harbert had finished and dismissed him for the evening.

 

“If you were asking my opinion, I’d say your trapped you between a rock and a hard place,” said that all too familiar voice that I hadn’t heard in well over a moon. I looked up and saw Alys sitting in the chair Harbert had occupied, for and knife in hand and ready to eat. Harbert’s plate came flying back from where Harbert had placed it and settled in front of Alys.

 

_Definitely dreaming._

 

“Hello again, sweet sister,” I said, sounding rather drunk, even to my own ears.

 

Alys tutted as she indulged herself on the remains of Harbert’s meal. “I’m concerned with how melancholy things are getting, Jon.”

 

“I don’t think it’s that much of a problem,” I countered.

 

“Don’t think it’s that much of a problem?! You have this fic listed as satire. Last I read your little critic friend, Frye, melancholy wasn’t a part of satire.”

 

“Then you obviously didn’t read Frye well enough.”

 

Alys dropped the silver from her hands and stood up. She practically glided over to a book case that simply popped out of the wall at that instant, from which she pulled a blue hard covered book entitled Analysis of Criticism, by Northrop Frye. She whetted her fingers and then began to flip through the pages.

 

“You’re truly going to pull Frye into this?” I asked agog.

  
Alys countered as her page turning slowed down to single page turns, “Yes, simply to prove you wrong. Besides, you’re the one who advertised him in the summary section.”

 

I countered, “On AO3. AH.com won’t know the heck we’re talking about.”

 

A bell was heard ringing, and then Alys smiled as she said, “Now they will.”

 

“Ahem… let’s do a brief run through the six stages of satire and irony, shall we?”  
  
Dryly I added, “Why not charge money for classes—I’m sure someone will pay into a patreon account.”

 

“We’re not on YouTube. Anyway… in the first phase of satire, there’s no displacement of the humorous society that is being laughed at. Instead the sense of absurdity arises as a kind of backfire or recall after the work has been seen or read. Once we have finished with it, deserts of futility open up on all sides, and we have in spite of the humor, a sense of nightmare and a close proximity to something demonic.”

 

“In other words, first you laugh, and later on you cry about the implications. See, I told you there’s some melancholy to Satire.”

 

Alys cleared her throat and continued, “It takes for granted a world which is full of anomalies, injustices, follies, and crimes and yet is permanent and undisplaceable. Its principle is that anyone who wishes to keep his balance in such a world must learn first of all to keep his eyes open and his mouth shut.”

 

I put my hand to my chin, a sudden thought striking me, “Actually rather helpful advice for surviving King’s Landing, and if I’m not mistaken that’s the level of satire Sansa finds herself trapped in… at least in the first four books.”

 

Alys asked as she turned the page. “What are you doing?”

 

“Translating. If you’re going to read at me, the readers should at the very least grasp what you’re saying,” I said giving her a devilish grin of my own.

 

Alys shook her head and continued, “What is recommended is conventional life at its best. Hence the satirist may employ a plain, common-sense, conventional person as a foil for the various… eccentrics of the society they’re trapped in. Such a person may be the author himself or a narrator, and he corresponds to the plain dealer in comedy or the blunt advisor in tragedy. The kind of American satire that passes as folk humor.”

 

Turning to where I imagined a camera would be, if this were a television or a movie, I spoke plainly, “I.E. a conservative’s perspective. Life was better before all these weird people came along and started disrupting society with all their weird notions and eccentricities which are downright funny to laugh about with how weird they are. The only danger is that the weird people outnumber the people with good old fashioned common sense, and they’re running society into the ground. In order to fix society we just need to get back to the simplicity of the old time religion and the plain old simple traditional ways, you know just plain old common sense.”

  
Alys bit her lip and then shook her head. “Considering we’re in the heart of the city, and you don’t have a Southern drawl, I’d say that’s a no for this story being the first stage of satire.”

“But!”

 

Alys continued on, “The second phase of Satire is in which a hero runs away to a more congenial society without transforming his own, a picaresque novel or the story of the successful rogue who makes conventional society look foolish but without setting up any positive standard.”

 

“ _Don Quixote_ or _Candide_ , essentially, which I’ll remind you Alys both have very melancholy and nearly existentialist second halves. Candide has a blue screen of death moment when he realizes the whore that’s trying to cheat him out of his money in a casino in Venice is his own beloved childhood sweetheart, Cunegonde, for whom he’s trying to increase his money at the casino to rescue in the first place. And Don Quixote is tricked by all his family (who are _only_ thinking of what’s best for him as he goes gallivanting around the neighborhood making a fool of himself and them) into accepting his delusions are just that as his dreams come up hollow, his Dulcinea a whore, and his magic golden helmet a simple barber’s dish. Hell, even the children’s story _The Neverending Story_ goes that far when Bastian comes to Fantastica and practically loses his entire identity in the process, nearly doomed to be a dried out husk of the person he once was when he goes power hungry and attempts to seize power from the Child-like Empress at the urging and manipulation of the witch. That’s right folks, _The Neverending Story 2_ was following the book, they just did a piss poor job of it.”

 

Alys waited patiently for me to finish before asking, “Can I continue? Or do you want me to dress you up as a college professor?”

 

I waved my hand in defeat, for the moment, but readied myself to strike once she paused to breathe.

 

“The central theme in the second phase, then is the setting of ideas and generalizations and theories and dogmas over against the life they are supposed to explain. The first phase may be merely anti-intellectual with a popular contempt for longhairs and ivory towers. Anti-intellectual satire proper, however, is based on a sense of the comparative naiveté of systematic thought, and should not be limited by such ready-made terms as skeptical or cynical. Instead it is a defense of the pragmatic against the dogmatic.”

 

“In other words, those who have dogmatic beliefs in a way of thinking should have their world view road tested against pragmatic reality, no exceptions. I’m sure that’s exactly why we have the High Sparrow, Stannis, and Melisandre in _A Song of Ice and Fire_ —their dogmatic beliefs each being challenged and proven wrong as much as Dr. Pangloss’ belief that we live in the best of all possible worlds is in _Candide_. Or, like the practicality of going on a canal building spree, mayhaps?”

 

Alys hissed, “Heresy! To call into question the practicality of automatically building canals in a self-insert story?! Hmm…mayhaps the second phase fits after all.”

 

“Of course it fits! I’m an escapee author stand-in from my own society which I was unable to transform in any capacity, and I’ve come to try and thumb my nose at the powerful here where I can’t in real life. End of search, we found the stage, done.”

 

Alys held for a moment, and I thought thankfully we’d stop there, and stop boring the reader with an essay disguised in the form of a dialogue. But she turned that blasted page, “And yet… there’s that abundance of melancholy.”

 

“Melancholy is as much a part of satire as is laughter! If you’re not laughing, you’re crying!” I protested, lamenting being a prisoner of my own dream.

 

She turned the page yet again, saying, “Continuing on…”

 

I groaned.

 

Alys read silently, hemming and hawing for a moment, mumbling “Curiouser and curiouser” to herself, but saying nothing to me.

“Are you going to read aloud, or am I supposed to just guess at what the third stage of satire and irony is?” I asked, when she looked nearly ready to turn the page.

 

Alys looked up as if she had completely forgotten I’d been there before saying, “Oh yes, right. The technique of disintegration brings us well into the third phase of satire, where we must let go of even ordinary common sense as a standard. For common sense too has its certain implied dogmas, notably that of the data of sense experience is reliable and consistent, and that our customary associations with things form a solid basis for interpreting the present and predicting the future. The satirist cannot explore all the possibilities of his form without seeing what happens if he questions these assumptions. He will show us society suddenly in a telescope as posturing and dignified pygmies, or in a microscope as hideous and reeking giants, or he will change his hero into an ass and show us how humanity looks from an ass’ point of view. This type of fantasy breaks down customary associations, reduces sense experience to one of many possible categories.”

 

A candle behind me lit itself as I suddenly realized why Alys had read so long.

 

“Oh… so that’s why I’m getting younger. Like _Alice in Wonderland_ , common sense has been thrown out the window,” I realized.  
  
Alys leaned in then and said, “See what happens when you stop thinking you know everything and listen?”

 

I smirked and said, “The more you—”

 

“Stop right there, I don’t want House Dayne’s sigil randomly appearing and causing a technicolor fireworks display.”

 

Another page turn.

 

She continued after taking a sip of water from a glass that suddenly appeared in her hands, “We move on, out of satire and into the irony half of the six stages. With the fourth phase we move around to the ironic aspect of tragedy, and satire begins to recede. The fall of the tragic hero, especially in Shakespeare, is so delicately balanced emotionally that if we exaggerate any one element in it merely by calling attention to it, we will manage to turn it ironic. Hamlet dies in the middle of a frantically muddled effort at revenge which has taken eight lives instead of one. Cleopatra fades away with great dignity after a careful search for easy ways to die. Coriolanus is badly confused by his mother and violently resents being called a boy. Such tragic irony differs from satire in that there is no attempt to make fun of the character, but only to bring out clearly the “all too human,” as distinct from the heroic aspects of tragedy. King Lear attempts to achieve heroic dignity through his position as a king and father, and finds it instead in his suffering humanity: the ironic parody of the tragic situation.”

 

It hit home then, like a heavy weight around my neck, just where I was. Sadly, I said, “Or like when Ned tried to find some sense of the heroic in a good death by sticking to his convictions and honor, only to be unable to resist the all too human need to protect his family in Sansa—the daughter who betrayed him—and die telling a lie to save the only family he could—losing his tragic heroism in the process. Or Cressan when he dies trying to protect the Baratheon he considered most like a son from the seductive influence of the siren Melisandre whispering of her prophesy from Asshai and his special role he had to play in its completion—a special role that Cressan could never supply him just loving him as he was, faults and all. Then Cressan enduring mockery and rejection from that very same Baratheon seduced to Melisandre’s words, only to sacrifice his life meaninglessly as Melisandre drank from the poison cup but did not succumb to it like he. They attempt to be heroes and find meaning in tragic heroic deaths, but fail in even being that… that’s likely the fate of Aeron after The Forsaken.”

 

Alys took off her small cap and held it over her heart, “A moment of silence for Ned and Cressan… who may I remind you, Jon, are still alive and haven’t yet given their lives to such ironic destinies.”

 

Shaking my mind free from the influence of that other timeline, I resolved that this time would be different—the butterfly had already flapped its wings in chapter two after all, of course things would be different.

 

“And they won’t, if I can help it. I won’t let Martin get away with that!” I insisted.

 

“May the Gods ever be in your favor,” teased Alys before clearing her voice and saying, “the fifth phase is irony in which the main emphasis is on the natural cycle, the steady unbroken turning of the wheel of fate or fortune. It sees experience in our terms with the point of epiphany closed up, and its motto Browning’s, “there may be heaven; there must be hell.” Less moral and more generalized and metaphysical in its interest—more stoical and resigned. The Old English _Complaint of Deor:_ “Thaes ofereode; thisses swa maeg” (freely translateable as “Other people got through things; maybe I can”) expressing that the practical and immediate situation is likely to be worthy of more respect than the theoretical explanation of it.”

 

Shaking my head, I said, “Martin loves his raging against the inevitable, characters set up against impossible odds unable to accept as that wheel turns and runs them over. Irony truly rules Westeros. Now I can see why you wanted to get to here, Alys.”

 

She gave a small smile and said, “There’s only one last stage.”

 

“We’ve come this far, finish out the six.” I conceded.

 

“The sixth phase presents human life in terms of largely unrelieved bondage. Its settings feature prisons, madhouses, lynching mobs, and places of execution, and it differs from a pure inferno mainly in the fact that in human experience suffering has an end in death. The human figures of this phase are, of course figures of misery or madness, often reflections of romantic roles. Thus the romantic theme of the helpful servant giant is parodied. Sinister parental figures naturally abound, for this is the world of the ogre and the witch, of the siren with the imprisoning image of shrouding hair, and of course, the femme fatale or malignant grinning female.”

 

“In otherwords, a world like the Riverlands and Crownlands after the War of the Five Kings, made up of characters like Hodor—whose mindlessness is taken beyond parody into the realm of the pathetic when Bran mind rapes him, Randyll Tarly and his sinister promise to Sam and indifferent warnings to Brienne, Roose and his condemnation of boy lords, Arya running around the streets of Braavos in a state of perpetual identity crisis, Ramsay and his torture porn, Euron and Melisandre being, well, Euron and Melisandre, and Cersei of course watching as the tower of the hand burns to the ground, smiles at the torture done to the bard and the Kettleblack, and most of all sitting across from Falyse Stokeworth as she assures her that Qyburn shall take care of her and ignores the screams that follow. Well, at least people now know what to consider _A Feast For Crows_ and _A Dance With Dragons_. And it explains why the books have been taking longer to write for Martin. He kept sliding down the ironic slide and into the bottomless pit of the wasteland. And who wants to live in a wasteland from which only death is an end to the unending suffering and strife? Valar Morghulis indeed. How do you move on from it? What’s beyond the wasteland?”

 

“Better to avoid getting to that wasteland in the first place, huh?” suggested Alys.

 

“Aye,” I could only agree with a nod of my head.

  
She then closed the book with a sudden snap and slapped it across my face. “Then quite being melancholy! You’re spending far too much dwelling on past wrongs that you did as Jon. Settle those and be done with them, or else you’ll never be able to endure the trials that are coming.”

 

“That’s the trouble with being inserted into a life already mostly lived, you inherit all their baggage. All their regrets and mistakes as well as their collected abilities,” I retorted as I stretched and readjusted myself to find a more comfortable position in my chair. I had a feeling I was going to be here for a while yet. And if Alys was going to play the part of the schoolmarm, at least I wasn’t going to be sitting up like a good little boy. I concluded, “It’s not like being inserted into a child or a young adult, where you can just chalk up any changes in personality to growth and gaining maturity and there’s very little if any past history to have to deal with.”

 

“Just wait until you meet Jocelyn,” sighed Alys.

 

“What?!”

 

“Oh… nothing,” grinned Alys wickedly as she patted a thin book in her lap labelled Jocelyn.

 

“Are those all my memories about her you have there?” I asked, suddenly realizing I hadn’t a clue of what I needed to concern myself with meeting Jocelyn.

 

“Aye,” answered Alys as she took a sip of wine herself.

 

I narrowed my eyes, “So you’re the one holding all my past memories hostage until the moment I need them?”

 

Alys tucked the book up her sleeve, it vanishing in the bear fur lined sleeve as though it had never been there. “I only hold these hostage. And for good reason too. The moodiness would be unending if I released these suckers too early. As for the rest… well, someone else holds the rest of them… someone who desperately wishes to speak with you, Jon.”

 

“Who?” I asked as the door to my hall opened and then promptly closed. I turned to see standing before me, Lysa.

 

“Hello Jon… been a while, hasn’t it?” asked Lysa with a look upon her face that looked like she might be ready to murder me, for the second time.

 

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

 

“She’s the bad cop,” answered Alys slyly.

 

_Shit._

 

She continued, taking a step closer to my side of the table, “You just had to kill me off, didn’t you? I do all the hard work of giving you a son, suffering through you in your old body that needed assistance performing the act as oft as naught, and then, just when I am about to be rewarded with my son and the promise of what looks to be a younger more virile husband, you kill me off.”

 

“I didn’t kill you, the butterfly effect did. I even lampshaded it with an actual butterfly appearing in the scene. If you’d been wondering how that butterfly got into the birthing chamber in the first place and closed the damn window, you’d have lived, truth be told. But if you’re upset that you were denied happiness in this incarnation, Lysa, may I suggest travelling back over to the _So Soars the Young Falcon_ universe where I’m quite happy to say you had a wonderful relationship with Denys with lots and lots of children to keep you happy.”

 

“Nice plug,” whispered Alys with a smirk and a wink.

 

Lysa approached, and I saw she had with her a gigantic tomb labeled memories that she held in her right hand—half the pages ripped out. “Don’t change the subject! Besides, we both know how that story is going to end for me—let alone my poor poor children.”

 

I protested, “Spoilers! Anyway, happiness always comes with a cost, Lysa. Especially in Westeros.”

 

She slapped me good and hard across the face with the book of my memories. It hurt like hell, and the book seemed to vanish into my head, giving me a head rush that hurt even worse than the slap.

 

“That’s what I think of your costs!” she huffed before stalking out of the room.

 

“The title of this story is _Into the Old Falcon_ —not _He who gets Slapped_ ,” I muttered as I rubbed my free hand across my now throbbing right half of my face.

 

Alys laughed, and then idly sang as she picked up the wine bottle, “Where is the fic that I once had? Where has it gone? Gone with the wine.”

 

“Cole Porter, really?” I deadpanned.

 

Alys laughed, “Hey, if you’re going to steal from him for a tiny meta inside joke that most of your readers are likely too young to grasp, then I can certainly improvise off of him. It’s even from the same show.”

 

“And again we come back to insulting the readers.”

 

Alys scoffed, “If they’re so offended, then they should remember that this weak and idle theme is no more yielding than a dream.”

 

I stood up and crossed to where Alys was standing by the bookcase, “Okay, that’s it, once we start getting into a quote war, then it’s time for you to go and for me to wake up.”

 

“But you are already awake,” I heard Alys’ voice in my head and blinked to find her gone from the room, and I was once again sitting in my chair—the empty wine cup in my hand.

 

_All right, note to self, avoid the stuff from Dorne. Stay with the Arbor vintage._

 

That night I was disturbed from my otherwise dreamless slumbers by Erasmys.

 

“What is it?” I asked, still feeling the slight ache from the hangover that had blossomed halfway through supper.

 

“It’s Ser Harbert, my lord,” came the somewhat muffled voice of my steward.

 

I was up and out of my bed and pulling on a robe in the next instant.

 

“What about Harbert?” I asked as I opened the door to Erasmys’ worried face.

 

_Oh gods, please no. Not another assassin._

 

“One of the guards you had posted outside his room came to me at the changing of the guard. He said that the boy—Ser Harbert was screaming.”

 

“And did they check on him?” I asked, worried that they hadn’t thought to like that cliché in fan fiction.

 

“That’s just it, they did, and he was sound asleep.”

 

“Nightmares then,” I said, feeling my racing heart slow some then.

 

“The problem is, my lord, he keeps alternating between screaming and not. It’s… well, now it’s so loud it’s keeping most of the staff awake.”

 

“And you want me to ask what’s bothering him? Calm him down… that sort of thing?” I asked, stepping out into the dark hall and closing the door behind me.

 

“If you’d be so good, my lord,” admitted a clearly exhausted Erasmys before saying, “Brigit tried, but the boy—Ser Harbert wouldn’t let her near him.”

 

“He’s awake now, then?” I asked. As we took the steps up to the level Harbert was on.

 

“Aye.”

 

“Get some sleep, Erasmys. I’ll handle this,” I said as I outpaced my tired steward climbing the steps. For some reason I felt rather more energetic of late.

 

“Thank you, my lord! Thank you!” exclaimed Erasmys before he hurried past me and up the tower steps to where my staff slept.

 

I approached the door to find two very concerned guards, Rollan and Fryds who looked relieved to see me enter the room.

 

“I said go away!” shouted Harbert, accompanied by a pillow hitting me rather directly in the face. I thanked the gods it wasn’t his other adult boot.

 

“I’m not going away,” I said stepping over the pillow where it fell. The room I had put Harbert in was smaller than his previous chambers, but still rather more spacious than a squire could typically expect. Truth be told these were my lady wife’s compartments before she’d died.

 

“Have I done something to displease my lord?” asked Harbert, bitterly.

 

“That depends, are you screaming bloody murder through the night on purpose, or not?” I asked as I stopped at the foot of the bed Harbert was sitting in—the furs and pillows all a mess from an obvious poor night’s sleep.

 

“Heard me, did you?”

 

“No, but you are keeping my servants awake, and they most of all need their sleep,” I answered.

 

“I’ll try to be a little quieter when I sleep then,” spat Harbert as he tried to bury himself underneath his furs.

 

“Do you know why you scream in your sleep?” I asked, leaning my body against the bed post.

 

“What do you care?” pouted Harbert as he covered his head under his furs.

 

I grabbed the edge of his furs and pulled them up to expose him and said, “If you’re that upset by it that you’re having nightmares about whatever it is, then as your friend, I do care.”

 

Harbert continued to pout, saying, “Just like you want to make amends by making me your squire?”

 

“Would you rather be sent to your mother’s family?” I asked, growing tired of this trite stepparent-like conversation.

 

His face contorted before he spoke.

 

“To those treacherous bastards? Fuck no. They supported the Targaryens when my father crowned himself Storm King—and he forgave them on behalf of my mother’s begging him. He took half their lands at first but then the Targaryens told him to give them back when the war was over. Robert was even more a fool for forgiving Silveraxe at Summerhall. So no, I don’t want to go to my mother’s family,” blustered Harbert.

 

“Well, that’s likely where you would have gone, if I hadn’t spoken up,” I told him.

 

“Oh… thank you…” he said awkwardly.

 

That remainder of a hangover was really hurting now. I massaged my forehead for a moment before asking, “Now what about these nightmares?”

 

Harbert looked a little sheepish at the mention of them.

 

“I… I don’t get nightmares,” he started.

 

“Of course not, you just scream in your sleep for no reason,” I deadpanned.

 

“They’re not nightmares… they’re memories.”

 

_Hmm…._

 

“What kind of memories?” I asked sitting on the edge of the bed he was on. Harbert didn’t immediately flee the bed, so that was a good sign. A flurry of emotion passed over his face in the few instances since I had asked the question. Clearly he was searching for some kind of answer to my question.

 

He finally settled on another question, “Remember the battle at Wendwater?”  
  
“Aye,” I remembered that battle when the Blackfyres last invaded Westeros.  
  
“That… being in the thick of fighting… covered in blood and mud. Swords and axes flying, horses charging, spears, the chaos of battle…"  
  
“And?” I asked, expecting more.  
  
“That’s it… I always used to have them, of different battles… but now… now it’s more often. And now I’m as I am now in them. Small, powerless, weak… can’t hardly do anything…”  
  
_Seven Hells, he’s got PTSD. What do I do? Fuck._  
  
“You’re not that small,” I contradict him, probably not the best thing to do, but he wasn’t. He was rather tall for an eleven year old, the first hint of the height he’d grow to as a man.  
  
“You don’t understand what it’s like Jon. To go from being big, strong, able to handle anything people throw at you… only to…”  
  
He was almost on the verge of sobbing, “Only to have to depend on others for everything. I had to once before when I was bedridden… and now… I’m scared. I’m scared that it’s just going to get worse. I’m going to get younger and younger and it’s not going to stop like it has for you.”  
  
“I haven’t stopped getting younger,” I admit. Hoping to derail his fears for himself.  
  
“You haven’t?” he asked, his eyes going wide at that.  
  
“No. Sometimes it’s only as little as a few moons, or a few weeks, but the youthening continues, if ever at a slower pace.”  
  
“Seven Hells… then you… you could get even younger than me?” he realized. He stopped crying, good.  
  
He was looking so innocent in that moment. But he wasn’t that innocent.  
  
“Mayhaps…” I say, trying to sound more at ease with the situation than the nervous jittery feeling that was overtaking me. My inner cheek was being nibbled on to keep this calm.  
  
_Gods kill me if I do. I’m a dead man if that happens. Or at least as good as dead, judging by how Robert and the small council are already eager to feast over my corpse and I haven't even gotten too much younger than the King._  
  
“How can you be so calm about it?” he asked, seemingly amazed.  
  
Better to be honest about this. “You want to know something?”  
  
“What?” he asked, coming in closer to listen.  
  
I say barely louder than a whisper, “I’m fucking terrified. I’m just better at hiding it.”  
  
“You’re just doing what your father told you… what a man’s supposed to do,” insisted Harbert.  
  
_All right, time to kill that bird in the nest._  
  
"Look, Harbert, what our fathers told us about being men... about being as unmoving as a stone wall... well how has that worked out for either of us? Does it stop the dreams?"  
  
His answer was simple. "No."  
  
"Then forget what they said about being men."

 

Harbert looked askance at me for a long minute.

  
"You're starting..." he started, but then trailed off, as though thinking better of it in the next moment.  
  
"What?" I asked.  
  
He finally admitted, "You're starting to sound like I did, when I first showed up here."

 

"There's a reason we've been friends for so long, you know. We both chaff at the constrictions put on us, and like brothers try and set each other free."

 

“How do I stop those… dreams?” he asked haltingly.

 

“You don’t, but you don’t have to suffer them alone. Just talk about them with me.”

 

It might have been the exhaustion of his child-like body or emotions overwhelming him in, but in either case he hugged me then and leaning his body against mine soon fell back to sleep once again. Never one to disturb the slumbering, and his whines when I attempted to stand being almost criminal to hear, I gave in to the parental desire to indulgence his wants that I felt and decided simply to reposition us more comfortably on the bed as is, and let my hangover throb me back to sleep.

 

I awoke with the sun, out of the grasp of Harbert, and deciding it best to leave now before any servants awoke. Hell, I’d let them sleep in a bit, if they needed it. As I rose my night shift felt looser than normal, a feeling which I tried dismissing until I passed the Myrish glass. There standing before me was a young man. Handsome, blond, smooth skinned, athletic, and far better looking even with the aquiline nose than I ever was in real life. I had skipped over my own age entirely, skipped over my twenties completely, and staring back at me was a man of nine and ten namedays.

 

_Gods help me._


	7. Changes

_Chapter Seven: Changes_

 

Nine and ten namedays was hardly a horrible age to stop at. According to some 20/20 or Dateline or some other late night investigative news show from the late 1990s—or was it the early 2000s? That really was just one era from 1997 – 2003—anyway, a man finally hit their creative and mental prime at nine and ten namedays. Girls hit it earlier at three and ten or four and ten. I wonder if that study was contradicted by the later one saying the human mind wasn’t done developing until 26? In any case, nine and ten namedays was certain a far better age to be “stuck” at than say poor Harbert’s one and ten. A fortnight had passed by and I showed no signs of losing any more age. I even visited Tommen and Myrcella in the royal nursery and found the following day I was still nine and ten namedays the following morn. Harbert seemed now to be better accepting his return to one and ten namedays now that I was only eight namedays older than him. He seemed to write it off that I was more an older brother figure now than a father figure substitute, and that he was much more amenable to than the latter. Being as I had no experience in siblings from one life, and all the experience in the world being an older brother from the other, I carried on with an instinctual response that at once surprised me and seemed natural. I was looser about restrictions I know my one and thirty nameday self would have been a tad pricklier about, and I was more willing to experiment as a question rose within me and reverberated out into the world: Why not? It was likely the reduced frontal hemisphere capacities talking, but I was suddenly eager to see change come to Westeros. Change that I had been more reticent in pursuing at older ages.

  

Interest in the proposed canal was favored among the smaller houses I had contacted. Although they could not afford to contribute much to its construction (or so they said), the idea that they could charge tariffs and fees for use of the canal across their lands, and so earn more income—in exchange for ensuring its protection and upkeep was greatly enticing. I learned that smaller canals did exist in Westeros—largely in the Reach, and mostly to ensure that rivers were deep enough to certain castles—primarily those who had paid their protection fees and other tariffs to the Order of the Green Hand. With Archmaester Walgrave’s assistance we were astonished to find that he had been travelling up some canals already and hadn’t realized it (which made me doubt his claim of being an engineer for the French government). Thanks to the Order of the Green Hand’s centuries of work, it was why the Mander was so easily traversable up to Bitterbridge and so fertile in other areas as a network of smaller canals stretched out from the main river to help bring its water to fields. Further research revealed that it seemed to have been the secondary work of the Order of the Green Hand beyond protection of the Mander from Ironborn and pirates. As to why it had fallen out of favor that had more to do with the fall from grace of The Order of the Green Hand. The Order of the Green Hand it seem had gotten so onerous in its fees, taxing in its tariffs, miserly in their hoarding of coin, and had made the mistake of refusing their King his rightful share of the tariffs that the Order had had to be put down (or so the Reachlord maesters writing about the era had said—I doubted that was the truth, more likely the Gardeners grew either fearful at the power of the Order of the Green Hand, coveted their gold, or mayhaps both)—and those houses which had profited and supported the Order of the Green Hand were banished from the Reach—the secrets of the Order lost to the wind and the canals buried under the rich silt of the Mander. As such the Reachlords of the Northern Mander were eager to see such work up to Tumbleton dredged out once again and added to in the pursuit of a connection with the Blackwater. The Western Crownlands lords and Southern Riverlords were equally eager to see such a project done all the way up to the God’s Eye—easing their travel to King’s Landing by barge. The trouble lay in the Lords Paramount. Robert as King and ruler of the Crownlands would stamp whatever plan I approved of—it was Hoster and Mace that were the trouble. Hoster complained of giving the Southern Riverlords too much sway—especially when Riverrun was so far and disconnected from the God’s Eye. A little reminder of who was Shella’s heir though would likely set that straight for Hoster. There was also talk of any kind of project built at the God’s Eye being cursed by the Green Men and houses of First Men descent complaining to high heaven of threatening the Isle. Mace meanwhile complained of how disorderly his bannermen were, unable to agree to anything for long. Both men would need addressing if I wanted to press Walgrave’s plans forward, and I’d need Robert’s might to do it.

 

The day after I came to a decision on that Jocelyn Royce finally arrived in King’s Landing. Our meeting was delayed a day I was told while “suitable attire” could be found for Lady Royce. Instead I was given her apologies by Arnet, my cousin from Gulltown, the head of the Gulltown Arryns, who had accompanied Lady Royce on coming to King’s Landing.

  

Arnet had features which favored the Arryns by sharing the tell-tale aquiline Arryn nose, but he was of a dirty blond hair, and blue-grey eyes, and a darker complexion than a true pale skinned Andal should have. He wasn’t olive-skinned like the Rhoynar, but he was certainly “swarthy” compared to my own complexion. His most discernable feature was a heavy brow that even managed to dwarf his aquiline nose, giving him almost the appearance of being a greying blond human version of Sam the American Bald Eagle from the Muppets. After Arnet had properly recovered from seeing me in my rejuvenated state from utter shock, the conversation was allowed to continue. In the corner of this blue doublet was a small hawk perched upon a rock with a coin in its mouth—his grandfather’s sigil that he had adopted when my grandfather and his great-grandfather had had a falling out over Arnet’s great-grandfather marrying a rich Myrish merchant’s daughter. 

 

“Cousin, I thank you for providing escort for Lady Royce. It was… the honorable thing to do,” I nervously began, truly more put off by the fact that my cousin was now near thirty namedays my elder instead of near thirty namedays my junior.

 

“Aye, the honorable thing… she told me that she was en route to meet with you cousin and of her predicament. I simply offered my services… and had I not witnessed her transformation for myself, I’ll be honest, but I’d find it hard to accept your own sudden change.”

 

“But that was not your only aim in coming to King’s Landing, I presume?” I asked—figuring that getting directly to the point would move things along and save drawing out the awkward encounter.

 

“No, it wasn’t. Word reached me through some of my trading connections that you were writing lords about building a canal to connect the Mander to the Blackwater. The effect that would have on trade would be of tremendous opportunity and it made me wonder if mayhaps you might have softened from your grandfather’s views on trade.”

 

“I will not lie in saying that I myself find some persons involved in trade overly mercenary, caring little for those they do business with beyond the bottom line, and those traders I find it only right to curb and restrict. However, I would also be lying to say that I have not watched your branch of the family tree at a distance with some interest. To my best knowledge your father managed to take the Myrish glass trade his mother had inherited and expand upon the business and provide an upstanding life for you and your brother. I am willing to admit that we Arryns of the Eyrie have been a little too proud for our own good, cutting off a relationship when truly as falcons we should be feathering our nests. I look at my own son and wonder at what kind of world he will grow up to inhabit, I thank the gods for having been given my life over again to help shape that world. Not that I hadn’t tried to do that before, but having come so close to the end of my family line so many times by sticking to my grandfather’s pride, I wonder at how things might be different. That is why I have taken Archmaester Walgrave’s suggestion of building a canal into consideration.”

 

Through my speech, Arnet had nodded his head in agreement at the right places and his heavy brow had remained relaxed and calm. I thanked the gods both old and new that I had kept my good speaking abilities from my first life in Westeros. Elsewise I’d have likely been screwed.

 

“I can understand the desire to leave a better world for our children behind us. And for that and the interest in the more honorable dealings of trade I most humbly thank you for putting the past to rest.”

 

_Good so far…_

 

“Since you’re here, I would like to pick your mind cousin, to see if you might have suggestions for… ah… development of ventures that would be of benefit to the Vale, the Crown, and Westeros and her people,” I said, laying down the gauntlet.

  

Arnet smiled broadly—though his lips didn’t part—and then with a nod of his head he said that he’d be honored to see what they might be able to do. Depending upon his answers, I figured I might be able to swing him to be Master of Coin, or at the very least develop a plan to develop a more mercantile economy for the Vale.

   
_I need a wine glass now, this would be so much more cinematic holding a wine glass, but oh well_.

 

I continued on, “There is also another matter of grave importance to consider, cousin, one that has had me reconsider an appointment I made in Gulltown.”

 

“Does this concern the customs’ house perchance?” asked Arnet with a knowing glance.

 

“Have you noticed anything awry with the custom’s house?” I turn about on him.

 

Arnet laughed for a moment before saying, “Only that much more gold is coming into the custom’s house than has under his predecessors. I have little doubt it is acquired under less than honest means. And that is not the only cause for concern I have with him. I have associates who complain of his excessive application of tariffs on items at select times to drive away merchants for a time, creating a scarcity in the Gulltown markets that he then takes advantage of with wares he’d bought up before the scarcity selling at prices none of my merchant friends would dare suggest under normal circumstances. It’s highly criminal how he manipulates the market to fatten his purse. It makes doing honest business in Gulltown difficult for my fellow traders and merchants.”

 

“And yet you never thought to come to me, or address the issue to myself?” I questioned.

 

“Before now, cousin, would you have cared a bit as to the concerns of a mere merchant?” turned Arnet back on myself.

 

“Aye, I won’t admit you’re wrong. But I would also be amiss in saying that they’re why I am so… concerned about that man. Our mutual _friend_ I have discovered has been keeping unwarranted notice of mine and my family’s activity in addition to some other shady dealings here in the capital. From such actions it would appear that the man has ambition stretching far beyond his post, mayhaps even onto the Small Council itself. And so, when you return to Gulltown, I want you to gather what men you have that are loyal to you, and arrest him.

 

Arnet was silent for a long while after that, as if it took him a long while to truly process what I had just asked of him. 

 

“Why me? Why not your own men?” asked Arnet when he had recovered use of his speech.

 

_Because, from what I have learned and known of you Arnet, you may be involved in trade, but bribery is one thing I know you abhor…_

 

“I want to show the Vale that we Arryns have healed the rift between our branches. Showing that I trust you to carry out this matter for me will send a message to all the Lords of the Vale just what my opinion of our former rift is, and after his arrest I shall give you leave then to fill the post as you see fit.” I said simply. 

 

_And I will be free from worrying about Petyr and his love of chaos._

 

“What did he do to provoke such a response in you?” questioned Arnet.

  

“He made the mistake of involving my wife.”

 

_That was a good line to end on._

 

Jocelyn was far further along in the process of her “youthening” than myself. Already she looked as though she were just re-entering her late teens and was rather obviously uncomfortable at the prospect. She wore a dress that fit her rather well and was of the modern fashion that was just beginning to take a hold in the city—with sleeveless dresses and an open back that would have made a 1930s movie starlet happy. In the front, keeping the dress on her was three bronze broaches, two in the shape of circles—no doubt in honor of House Royce’s bulleted sigil and a third showing a bronze direwolf’s head. What she wore underneath this dress was a man’s shirt that puffed out almost as much as a poet shirt might. Clearly the shirt was meant for a larger man and was being worn to try and maintain her “modesty”. Had it not been for the exposed back, Jocelyn might be mistaken for a Jane Austen heroine at a convention of some sort. But it was the sight of Jocelyn which affected me the most.

  

“Lord Jon… you truly are a sight to see…” she said astonished-like and staring at me as though I were some animal in a zoo exhibit.

 

I tripped on my tongue, “You, yourself are quite lovely… Lady Jocelyn.”

 

_Fuck, did I just say that? Now I am starting to sound like the greenboy I look like…_

 

Thankfully she ignored that, “If you would allow it, I would speak plainly with you, my lord.” 

 

“Uh huh” I managed to grunt, my eyes unable to look away from her long flowing brown hair—tamed under the tension of a ribbon that matched her dress’ blue color, but with a few rogue curls here and there sneaking out, her slate grey eyes, and her serene if solemn face.

 

_Such a pity she has that white silk shirt preserving her modesty. Down boy, down. All right, no standing up then, at least not for a little while. Godsdamnit, I hate being a teenager again._

 

“Please forgive the delay, Lord Jon. I found that while traveling my clothes became less... suitable for my younger body. I've had to borrow this dress from one of the Queen's ladies."

 

"A dress you seem rather uncomfortable with," I noted leaning in closer to my desk.

 

She paused for a moment before answering, "The cut of the day is rather lower than it was when we were young. Given the way ladies dress nowadays one feels rather... well..."

 

"Half naked and as though the dress were one broach away from falling off?" I suggested with a raise of my eyebrow.

 

Jocelyn sighed nodded her head and gave a small laugh before saying, "You read my mind Lord Jon."

 

"That I fear has more to do with the King's pleasure, Lady Jocelyn, than with the Queen's fashion, I am sad to say."

 

_All right, my current hormone riddled body isn't that sad over it, but intellectually I am saddened by it for it shows just how little public regard is held for the King and Queen's marriage and Robert's ability to keep to his marriage vows. But beyond that I am currently not complain… stop that._

 

I continued with a small tease, "Though I must say that you might start a new trend among the more modest ladies of the court who like yourself seek to seem fashionable but without appearing to be ready to disrobe so easily."

 

Jocelyn was taken aback for a moment before saying with a slight smile that didn't extend far beyond her mouth, "You're teasing me."

 

I gave a slight smirk, "No offense intended, Lady Jocelyn, but I thought that it might make you feel more at ease in my presence... given our history.

 

And what a history had been flooding my mind ever since I had laid eyes on the eight and ten namedays girl who had entered my solar. Seeing her reminded me of the lady in waiting she had been to my first wife that she had been as another Royce and fellow First Man descended companion.

 

"The past is... just that. Though I will admit that opening that door and seeing you just as you were when you'd been wed to Jeyne once again has... well it has brought back certain memories and feelings I thought I had long put aside after witnessing your marriage to Lady Rowena."

 

She let that hang in the air for a moment before taking a deep breath to add, "I think I must blame my own rejuvenation on that part for it makes it feel as though those memories are more alive than all the years since. To some extent I cannot help but think Jeyne is somewhere in this tower crying about how you give all your attention and favor to Lady Rowena. That I'll return to my room to find her there begging for me to tell her more of the North and First Men traditions that her family have since abandoned, or worst of all to be waiting at her bedside, as she struggles to bring your child into the world and I being sent from her only to find Lady Rowena and her brother having talked you into a ride out in the forest. I know that these memories are of incidents long past, that you've been a better Lord of the Vale than many of your predecessors, and that your marriage to Lady Rowena when it did come was punishment enough to more than make up for all the small hurts and slights you gave to poor Jeyne, but my mind and heart feel irreconcilable in this moment."

 

Jocelyn's portrait of my past actions that and several other moments when I had neglected Jeyne brought the memories back to me, no doubt as Alys relinquished control of them. I kept eye contact with Jocelyn as she expressed her thoughts and feelings, accepting them with "I was in the wrong then and I have had many years to consider how I was an idiotic greenboy chomping at the bit to defy my father's wishes and not truly considering the wrong I was doing to Jeyne in the process. I had built Rowena up in my mind as some kind of ideal woman, someone who Jeyne Royce could not compare to. It is easy to say that had I the opportunity to go back and change my behavior to Jeyne that I would. What I do moving forward though I hope will be and has been informed by my past actions, so that the future may be something better."

 

"You seem extremely eager to forge a new path for yourself and House Arryn..." commented Jocelyn, signaling she no longer wished to speak of the past, and thankful for that I followed her on the change in conversation.

 

"You've been speaking with Arnet then?" I asked with smile.

 

"Aye, he has been a most enlightening companion to travel with. He does business with my grandson, Ned, and seeing the two of them speak at Gulltown rather excitedly for this proposed canal they had heard rumor of was heartening. It was getting an opportunity to see him unlike I had ever done so before. Ned was always a reclusive boy, much like my brother for whom he was named."

 

_Is that the curse of the "Ed" names in GRRM's universe?_

 

"How did you first notice your rejuvenation?" I asked, finally getting around to the reason I had invited her here in the first place. If anything, mayhaps she could shed some more light on the process beyond it involving interacting with children.

 

"I began to remember things. These last few years my memory has been like a chest packed hastily and tossed in travel. And then while spending time with Nestor's daughter, Myranda, I began to recall things more easily as my great-granddaughter prattled on as if I was still vacant in my mind. The next day my hands were no longer stiff and inflexible, my mind was sharp and I felt at least a decade younger. When the changes continued, that was when I wrote to you... well, that and my concern for the other matter I put in my letter."

 

"The one concerning your choice in remarriage? I admit I was rather shocked to find you so concerned for that... and then I ended up nine and ten and I could see why you might."

 

"At the time I had not become as young as that, but I was fearful that as I continued to get younger until I was this age that Nestor might begin to consider to whom he might see me wed, to give himself half-uncles that would better secure his influence in the Vale as your steward. I love Nestor dearly, but even as a boy he was always a schemer--always having some plan in his head that he was trying to achieve—I'm convinced he got it from my mother. He’s determined to see his Myranda as Lady of the Vale one day. I already have been wed to please the ambitions of my brother and mother, and have helped through my negotiations on my nephew's behalf to ease relations between Houses Arryn and Stark with my great-nephew's fostering with you. I have more than done my duty to my house, my family, and my children. And if I am to be married again, I would rather like some part in the decision more than the power of refusal. The last thing I want is to return to the Vale only to be pawned off to a Hunter, a Lynderly, or a Redfort."

 

I nodded and said, "I can understand your concerns, having been told who to marry and then having the freedom to choose my own marriage, I much preferred the latter and wouldn't begrudge you the same. You have my word that I will not endorse any marriage proposal concerning yourself that you do not bring to me in person. And if you need my word in writing for Nestor's sake, with my seal, I will be more than happy to oblige you."

 

Jocelyn was stunned, her mouth opening and closing several times before her face broke into a genuine smile that lit up the entire room.

 

"Thank you my lord, you do not know how much of a relief that is on my mind."

 

"It is of little trouble, Lady Jocelyn. I would ask for one small thing in return, though."

 

Jocelyn's enthusiasm curbed then, as if to prepare herself for a steep price. I tried to reassure her with a smile as I said, "I would ask for your assistance and guidance. Given your newfound youth, you will, I assume, seek friends and companions among those who are now closer to our … physical ages?"

 

"Aye, I was never one to like being kept in a keep for very long," admitted Jocelyn.

 

Here I go. "I was thinking that I might entrust you with the task then of finding a wife for me among your new acquaintances."

 

Jocelyn blinked once, twice, and thrice before asking, "Jon, isn't that a matter too soon to—"

 

_She dropped the lord part…_

 

I interrupted her, saying, "I don't mean to marry this year, but I do intend to do so again before long. And when I do, this time I intend to make a practical choice. I've married for filial duty and hated it. I've married for love and come to regret it. And I've married for alliance when pressed to do so. Now I would make a sensible and pragmatic arrangement. Jasper is in need of a mother—I intend to send him to his relations in the North for a few years, but when he is of the age of reason I would like to bring him back into my home and have a wife who is willing to be a mother to him in addition to any children we may have aside from him. I do not wish for Jasper to be an only child. My branch of the family has grown too withered of late, and there is always the Gates of the Moon to be given to any younger brother Jasper may have in the future. Furthermore I need an intelligent ally to assist me both here at court and in the Vale. A woman capable of keeping my lords in hand and for keeping an ear to the ground here at court."

 

The way Jocelyn asked the next question reminded me awfully of a Mad Men secretary. She then asked, "Would you have certain physical requirements that need satisfaction?"

 

"I have been married to pretty and plain women, and even so I will not say that attractiveness isn't a minor consideration, but I am more concerned with her mental capabilities and her heart."

 

"In terms of family, how high or low of a rank?" questioned Jocelyn.

 

"Not too high that in such a case as Jasper and his would-be brother had a falling out that his brother might find it easy to coalesce power around himself and overthrow Jasper, nor so low as to be insulted at court or by my bannermen. I would not put a poor girl through all of that."

 

Quietly she asked, "You seem to have the specifics all in mind. Is there some woman you've already are considering?"

 

_Yes, you, but I'm not going to give you your freedom to choose a husband one minute and then ask you to marry me the next._

 

"I speak in general of an ideal match, I recognize that such a woman is unlikely to be found immediately."

  

“Lastly, do you care if she has been widowed herself before taking to your bed, or are you only interested in maidens?”

  

_Is that… is she? Better be careful on this one… just in case._

 

“Both have their virtues, and I would not discriminate in the matter. After all, I do not come to the marriage a greenboy, though I may look or feel the part at certain times.”

 

There was a painfully long silence after that.

 

“Jon…” she finally began, but left unfinished, as if testing it without the lord.

 

“Jocelyn?” I tentatively returned.

 

It was then that the door burst open, startling us both as Robert dismissed my guard with a shout saying, “Bahh! He won’t mind!”

 

_I could kill you Robert right now… I literally could kill you…_

 

“Come on Old Man, I’ve been waiting in the practice yard for you for nearly an—” began Robert, but he was distracted in a moment by looking down towards Jocelyn. His eyes widened in that moment and whatever he was going to say was lost to him for forever as all he could say after that was, “L—Lyanna?”

 

_Fuck._

 

I stood up immediately. Bad idea to do when you’re so close to a desk.

 

_That hurt, but just ignore it and keep going._

 

I coughed and managed a, “Your grace, may I present my—a bannerwoman of mine, Lady Jocelyn _Royce_.”

 

Bewildered he spoke almost as coherently as a shocked child, “Royce? But she… she looks like a Stark… like Ned and Lyanna…”

 

It was here that Jocelyn seemed to have recovered enough to speak, rising in that moment to give a curtsey in an extremely easy manner which seemed to end some of Robert’s confusion, “Your grace, I was born a Stark. I may never have met my great-niece for whom you mistake me, but I take the comparison as a complement.”

 

All Robert could say then was, “You’re married?”

 

_Real smooth Robert._

 

“Widowed.”

 

I interjected then, saying “Lady Royce was one of the gods’ chosen for a second chance at youth.”

 

Jocelyn turned to me then, confused, “Gods’ chosen?”

 

Not wishing to complicate the conversation any further than it needed to be at that moment, I gave Jocelyn a look and spun my hand in a manner trying to convey that I’d explain that, later. She seemed to comprehend enough that she dropped it the next moment.

 

Robert recovered with, “Well, of course she’d be chosen by the gods, Old Man… she’s as lovely as a winter rose!”

 

How long did that comparison take you to think of, Robert?

 

Jocelyn scoffed at that, saying, “Like those? Beautiful, aye, but vile things. They grow in clusters if left alone and soon crowd out all other plants in a glass garden.”

 

Robert didn’t miss a beat, saying “Still lovely none the less.”

 

Robert, your mooning over Jocelyn is highly inappropriate. You’re fucking married!

 

“Your grace, Lady Jocelyn and I were discussing matters—” I began, but was interrupted before I could finish.

 

“Here in this stuffy solar? It’s a glorious summer’s day outside and you choose to stay cooped up in this bloody tower? Wouldn’t you rather walk and speak in the gardens, my lady?” Robert asked, half addressing me and Jocelyn all at once, even though his eyes never left Jocelyn.

 

“I’m afraid that I’m not properly attired—” began Jocelyn, a few furtive looks given my direction in that instant.

 

“Nonsense, in fact, you must be sweltering underneath that silk shirt! If anything you’re overdressed!” insisted Robert.

 

Taking the hint from Jocelyn, I interjected, “Your grace, once our business is concluded, if Lady Jocelyn would wish for an escort into the gardens I would be most happy to assist her in that matter if she so needs. I understand, your grace that you have petitioners to meet in the Throne room this afternoon.”

 

“Bahh, they can wait!” dismissed Robert.

 

“Your grace, I would not keep you from your duties. You are, after all, a good king, are you not?” asked Jocelyn with a sudden slyness.

 

“Better than Aerys!” puffed Robert, proudly.

 

She gave an overt smile and said, “Then I wouldn’t wish to tarnish such a reputation by holding up the great cause of justice. And besides the sooner justice is meted out, the sooner it is finished.”

 

“That’s right, the sooner it’s finished…” echoed Robert like a mooncalf.

 

“I wish you well in your duties, your grace,” said Jocelyn as she did her best to shuffle Robert out the door.

 

“I will, Lyanna… I will!” he said before leaving the room, and Jocelyn closed it, and then locked it behind him and pressed her back to the door—less he burst back into the room.

 

“I must be your prisoner then,” I said with a smirk.

 

“Oh stop playing games, Jon,” she retorted with a scoff, before meeting my eye and saying, “You go about asking for a wife and then describe me. Do you deny it?” she dared me.

 

“I won’t. At the same time, I wasn’t going to promise you your choice and then ask you to choose me. And besides, if you had found a girl meeting those qualifications beyond yourself, I would have married her,” I answered honestly.

 

She then said with a roll of her eyes, “You are all chivalry, Jon, almost to a fault.”

 

A moment of silence passed during which I berated myself to say something that didn’t sound half as dumb as the things floating around in my head.

  

“I shall consider your proposal, my lord,” stated Jocelyn point blankly then, exiting the room the next instant. I sunk back into my chair in the next moment and looked down in a flash of anger.

 

“It’s all your bloody fault,” I grumbled at my hormone-riddled body.

 

That night I received an unexpected raven from White Harbor. Catelyn was coming herself by ship, with Old Nan in tow, and she wouldn’t leave King’s Landing until paying her respects and I agreed to foster her sister’s only child with her.

 

_Thank the gods._


	8. Reformation

_**Chapter 8: Reformation**  
_

 

Catelyn arrived with Old Nan and accompanying her was the entire reason Old Nan had come south in the first place: she had a babe at her breast. He looked to be one nameday old with fine downy black hair, and around his neck was a moonstone that had the oddest glow to it. Accompanying my goodsister was a man of the night’s watch or more appropriately a boy of the night’s watch now—and an old dwarf woman with long brown hair, but was armed with a mace and an obsidian dagger. How my goodsister was convinced to travel south in the company of this lot, I didn’t know. The man turned boy was Maester Aemon who was now returned to the torturous year of three and ten namedays when he’d been on the cusp of puberty. The one blessing he’d received from his rejuvenation was that he was no longer blind, the one curse that he’d received from being youthened was that he had to go through puberty all over again. The dwarf woman grunted a lot and said very little, often talking to Old—well, _Young_ Nan now, who seemed to understand the woman’s grunts instinctually. Young Nan who was plain of face, brown of hair, and blue-grey of eye, had settled at a young but robust six and ten namedays, and had taken up her old occupation of wet nurse with a gusto of one who seemed eager to return to the trade.

 

                                                       

 

“Such strange travel companions, goodsister,” I commented as we took a turn about the gardens. At long last I had arranged a meeting with a tailor and had a new wardrobe fitted as well as had several favorites adjusted to my younger, leaner body, and I felt little need to hide in my tower outside of training in my rough clothes at the practice yard. Now I could walk arm in arm with Catelyn as we took a turn about the garden while Jasper fed from Aestyr under a nearby willow tree, under the protection of a bored Harbert—who was laid out among the grass of the garden, idly putting to fat stalks of grass he’d plucked together and trying to blow through them like any bored boy might on a lazy hot summer’s afternoon such as this one. In fact he’d begun acting more like a boy of his age of one and ten than the man he’d been of late. When asked to recall memories he still could, but his behavior and instincts seemed to be adjusting, so to speak. It had begun to worry me that I’d end up like most young men of nine and ten namedays rather soon.

 

 

Catelyn spoke hesitantly, “Maester Aemon came south with them and insisted on joining myself further south when I heard of your invitation to Nan. I hadn’t thought to let her come then, truth be told as Ned and my children were rather concerned with her becoming even younger. But the babe—well he was far older than he is now—said she had to come.”

 

 

“How much older?” I asked.

 

 

“He was about my age, or so when he arrived with Maester Aemon, but he spent so much time with my children in the nursery—which truth be told I found rather odd to find a man take such an interest in children not of his own blood—that he soon joined my Bran as a babe in arms and I had no choice but to bring Nan. These events are so strange, I must admit. Had I not witnessed Nan’s youthening myself, I’d have wondered if he’d snuck his bastard into the castle and left him behind like some mummer’s song.”

 

 

We continued to walk for a moment through the garden, birdsong irritatingly filling the air followed by the rustle of leaves from a gentle breeze. I wondered who the man who was now a babe could be—especially with that moonstone.

 

 

“And Lysa, how did she fare… in the end?” asked Catelyn after we’d turned down a particularly shady path.

 

 

_What to say…_

 

 

“She had barely begun to recover from giving birth to Jasper and then she took fever and was gone. It all happened so quickly, and Lysa was nearly half delusional with the fever.” I said. It was the truth, though I kept any and all mentions of a rogue butterfly out of the conversation.

 

 

“So suddenly?” asked Catelyn.

 

 

“She labored about it for a few hours, but in the end the Grandmaester came to her too late,” I stated.

 

 

“He should have checked on her more frequently,” insisted Catelyn, frowning as she spoke.

 

 

“Lysa did not trust Grandmaester Pycelle too much.”

 

 

_One of her more intelligent thoughts, though Petyr could have likely told her that._

 

 

I continued, “She relied instead on the wise midwives eager to sell their services here in the capital.”

 

 

“A foolish mistrust that surely killed her,” grumbled Catelyn.

 

 

Just then Robert appeared strolling through the garden along the pathway. He saw them and then approached with a purposeful stride. Viewing his approach I marked how I saw his gut was certainly diminished, though he certainly was still rather hefty in size and build still.

 

 

_Good, a fat stag only serves as a meal for lions, and that’s a future that I don’t want near with a twenty-foot pole._

 

 

“Ahh, Jon! Just the man I wanted to see!” declared Robert before doing a double take at the sight of Catelyn walking at my side.

 

 

“Cat! Forgive me… I mistook you for your sister for a second there. Such a pity what happened to her,” boomed Robert as he embraced her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

 

 

“I thank you for your concern, your grace,” replied Catelyn with the utmost curtesy.

 

 

“And how is Ned?” pivoted Robert easily enough.

 

 

“Well, your grace. He asked me to send you his thanks for renewing the charters with White Harbor and Barrowton.”

 

 

“Anything Ned needs to appease his bannermen is no hassle, none at all. And your children, how are your children?” asked Robert, who was showing how sociable he could be.

 

 

Catelyn then proceeded to gush over Robb and Sansa’s achievements, while describing the smaller achievements of the rather young Arya and toddler Bran to Robert. For what it was worth, Robert managed to not grow bored with Catelyn’s enthusiasm to talk of her children, and even took a concern in his “namesake” living up to him in reputation.

 

 

“Mayhaps when my namesake’s nameday comes ‘round, I should gift him with a hunting knife to prepare him for his first hunt!” suggested Robert.

 

 

“T’would be an honor, your grace,” simpered Catelyn, though she couldn’t hide how she bit her lip to keep from frowning in disapproval of giving nearly nine nameday old Robb a dagger.

 

 

“Let’s return you to Aestyr and Jasper, and then his grace and I can wander off to speak,” I suggested to Catelyn good naturedly.

 

 

And so we took the path back the way we came where Jasper had finished having his fill and was being lulled to sleep. Catelyn took over and expertly continued and saying Aestyr could relax while she and her nephew got to know one another. It was there, beneath the shade of the willow.

 

 

When we’d taken a few turns down an avenue and then through a rather bushy path, I felt it more than past time for Robert to speak his mind.

 

 

“What is it, Robert?” I asked.

 

 

“I just finished speaking with Lyanna,” said Robert deliberately.

 

 

“Lady Jocelyn, you mean?” I reminded him.

 

 

He looked furtively around them and then leaned in close to admit, “Of course, of course. In any case… I must tell you something that I likely shouldn’t—especially with all these bloody red cloaks around here, but I want her.”

 

 

“What?” I asked dully.

 

 

“To be frank, I want her to be mine.”

 

 

“And has Jocelyn given you any reason that she’d return your… desires?” I asked after a momentary pause.

 

 

“I’m the King, of course she’d want me,” stated Robert as confident in that fact as any other.

 

 

“If so, then why speak with me?” I asked.

 

 

“I asked her to be my… lady… and she refused. Can you imagine that? A lusty widow who’s had the taste of what a husband can offer already, refusing?” he huffed.

 

_It depends upon how good the husband was..._

 

 

“Did she give you a reason for her refusal?” I asked. If I had any hope of her accepting my offer I would know it now.

 

 

Robert snorted, and said, “Aye, it’s why I sought you out directly. She says that she is already betrothed.”

 

_She hasn’t been to see me since our last meeting, but could that be… no, don’t get your hopes up this early, she’d come and say something to me first. Of that I’m sure._

 

 

“Already betrothed?!” I echoed rather stupidly. I mean a line like this is just padding, even if it is realistic to some degree that we echo one another in conversation like this. But still, it’s mostly there to stretch out an already lengthy conversation.

 

 

“I want you to break it,” he said while meeting my gaze intently.

 

 

I was on a roll with padding out the conversation, why break the trend now? “What?”

 

 

Robert snapped, “You heard me, old man. I want you to break it off.”

 

 

“So that she may be your _mistress_?” I challenged, rather more indignantly than I likely should. The word though did have the desired effect of shaming Robert to blush a rather unflattering shade of red that made him look short of breath. So I continued before he could, hoping to de-escalate the scenario. “Robert, it would appear that Lady Jocelyn would rather be some man’s wife than a royal mistress.”

 

 

He sighed, “I understand that… truly I do. That’s why I’m going to annul my marriage to Cersei, and then marry Ly—… Jocelyn.”

 

 

In that moment I stopped and nearly fell into a hawthorn bush from the shock of hearing that.

 

 

“And on what grounds would you annul your marriage?” I asked, feeling rather unsafe as I said it aloud. Who knew what little birds were hiding in these bushes? Mayhaps that was the real bird song I had heard before. Suddenly I wanted to be ensconced back in my little bird proof tower.

 

 

“Adultery should do it, I’d imagine. It’d also get rid of that brat of a boy, Joffrey. There’s something… wrong with him. He’s not my son… not like how Robb is Ned’s son or Jasper yours,” said Robert.

 

 

When I’d picked my jaw off the floor, I added, “It takes more than just one person to commit adultery. And children can be radically different from their parents...”

 

 

_Go on and say it. You know it's the truth! But I don't have any fucking evidence._

 

 

Robert muttered, “Probably her brother… aye, the Kingslayer already has as bad a reputation as can be, no need to worry about blackening it further.”

 

 

I bit my cheek to keep from laughing. Oh this was too rich. Well played, me who’s writing this chapter no doubt. Very well played. Offer me exactly the sort of catalyst that’d start a Reformation, a break in the Faith and a desire to reform it and center more power and authority in the crown—thus sparking a Westerosi Renaissance and Reformation all in one. But give me the fucking moral quandary of a lady’s happiness hanging in the balance, and a potential Civil War with the Lannisters hanging over my head like Clever Elsie’s pick-axe.

 

_Godsdamnit you bastard writing this, you’re too insanely cruel. You know full well that’s what I want to achieve, but now you’re testing me, to see how far I’ll go to get there. Fuck you—or, well, me!_

 

 

“You all right Old man?” questioned Robert.

 

 

“You have no proof that the Kingslayer and her grace have had any sort of relationship beyond that of a normal brother and sister,” I stated almost automatically. Hating myself as I did.

 

 

“Then you’ll find some,” stated Robert simply.

 

 

“What?”

 

 

“You heard me, find me proof."

 

 

“This is—” I began, but Robert cut me off.

 

 

Robert was like a hound with a scent. “I know it isn’t bloody honorable, but fuck honor. I did the honorable thing in fighting for Lyanna, avenging her father and brother’s deaths, taking the crown, and marrying that harpy—all for the benefit of others and the Kingdoms. Now, I want the Seven Kingdoms to pay me back for all the good I’ve done getting rid of a Mad King, putting down rebels, and seeing peace and prosperity throughout the lands once again.”

 

 

“And if… if Jocelyn still won’t have you?” I asked, scared of what he might say. I couldn't even suggest in this moment that I'd gotten there before him... possibly... mayhaps.

 

 

Robert’s face darkened, as though he really didn’t want to contemplate this, but at long last he sighed and admitted, “Then at least I’ll be free of that bloody harpy.”

 

 

I let Robert’s question of me hang in the air for a long while until at last I’d sighed and stated, “I will look for evidence of the Queen engaging in any misbehavior, though I doubt it exists. If it does, and it’s enough to free you of her, then we will need to act fast and swift. After that, and only after that, if Jocelyn still does not want you, I want you to swear to me to respect her wishes.”

 

 

Robert scowled but then at long last he nodded his head.

 

 

_Well, this is going to be easy. I just need to be careful of stating what I know and how I know it…_

 

 

I explained, “We need allies, first and foremost. To attack the Queen will bring the wrath of her father down upon us all. And the last thing either of us needs is another Rains of Castamere. Stannis would support you, of that I have no doubt.”

 

 

“Of course, whatever makes him heir again, he’d support. Ned’ll back me—Cat can even take a message to him.”

 

 

I nodded my head, “Do not trust Pycelle. The man has a noted favor towards Tywin. In fact I think he might be from the Westerlands himself, originally.”

 

 

“We have nearly all the eastern shore—Tywin could not hope to stand against that!”

 

 

“I’d prefer to extend the alliance farther one more notch. When I was in Dorne, the Prince’s younger brother made it rather plain to me that he considered Tywin responsible for the death of his sister and her children. He would likely jump at the chance to earn vengeance for their deaths."

 

 

Robert nodded his head as he said, “And then we’d have Dorne as well.”

 

 

I countered, “Or at least Prince Oberyn and whatever forces his brother would deign give him for such a mission.”

 

 

Likely not much, for while the Martells were eager for revenge, they likely wouldn’t forget that Robert didn’t do anything about Elia’s murder until it suited Robert to do so. They’ll still likely try the “marry a Targaryen” route. Which reminds me, shouldn’t Viserys just be a man grown this year at six and ten namedays? Something else to consider… if we go into a yet another rebellion so soon after the Greyjoy rebellion, some Free Cities people might see the opportunity behind Viserys and take a chance. After all, he hasn’t been the “Beggar King” for very long, yet.

 

 

“When you have something, Jon, you know where to find me,” stated Robert who then hurried off and leaving me rather heavy of heart and giddy of spirit. I was going to get a Reformation and Renaissance. And I had hopefully ensured Jocelyn’s future was her own. I nearly skipped back to Jasper, Cat, and Aestyr, until I turned a corner and was caught off guard by a voice.

 

 

“Hullo Jon,” a voice said rather calmly, catching me off guard. I turned my head down the avenue in shock to see the Queen sitting on a bench beneath a rather tall oak.

 

 

_Godsdamnit, is everyone fucking out among the bushes today?_

 

 

And then it hit me. _Had she heard, did our voices carry all the way over here?_

 

 

“Your grace. I did not expect you—” I began as I approached. I noticed that she was sitting with a flagon of wine by her feet and a half empty cup clutched in her hand.

 

 

“I have been meaning to speak with you, Jon, for a while. It’s about what happened in the practice yard,” she said rather simply before taking a long sip from her cup.

 

 

_Well, at least I’ve lucked out in that she’s drunk. She’ll be far more likely to make a mistake and reveal her actual motivations now._

 

 

I picked up the flagon and examined it with a sniff. “Dornish Red,” I stated and felt uneasy holding the substance that had given me an unbearable hangover.

 

 

“Help yourself, my lord.” She then sighed as I turned to find my empty drinking horn that I kept in case I had a thirst while working. I considered it for a second. “Help yourself…” she then repeated.

 

 

I politely declined, but obliged her by playing the gentleman caller and filling her glass for her again. She thanked me with a devilish grin and eyes that refused to move away from myself.

 

 

_Why is she looking at me like that?_

 

 

“Thank you. A toast, Jon, to the things we do for our children.”

 

 

“The things we do for our children,” I echoed as I met her met her eyes. She took a drink far deeper than likely was suggested. The wine looked thick almost like a syrup.

 

 

“Are they the reason you wished to speak with me?” I questioned as she finished swallowing.

 

 

“I’ve wanted to try and figure you out, Jon. I mean, you say things such as it being a shame that the world is cruel to not treat people for their inner mettle, something that I can _completely_ agree with, but then when I stop to think about things, I remember that you’ve shaped Robert to be the man he is.”

 

 

I put my hands behind my back, if only to put them somewhere. “I only had Robert from when he was ten on. His character was mostly set by that point, though I did help to temper its worse expressions and habits. It was more of a… polishing and smoothing out the wrinkles is all that I did.”

 

 

“I see, so Harbert is the one to explain why Robert is… the way he is, then?” she asked, her eyes narrowing somewhat.

 

 

“It isn’t all how he was nurtured, your grace. Some of Robert is completely up to him being Robert. But that gets us into the old debate.”

 

 

“What old debate?” pounced Cersei.

 

 

_Gods, am I really having this conversation? Nowhere to go but onward._

 

 

“Whether nature or nurture are more to explain for our behaviors. Is it all learned from how we are raised, or are there innate traits regardless of our situation?”

 

 

“And what do you think?” she asked innocently enough as she ran her finger around the top of her cup.

 

 

I began, recalling my college Intro into Psychology course, “It’s a little of both, your grace. Take Prince Joffrey for instance.”

 

 

“What about my son?” she asked rather defensively, stopping her finger.

 

 

_Now you’ve stepped in it._

 

 

“Would you say his constantly seeking affection from you is part of his innate personality, or a learned habit?” I asked.

 

 

“Don’t all children wish to be held by their mothers? I know I did,” she said as she dipped her finger into the wine and then sucked her finger clean.

 

 

_I’m really having this conversation with her? Really?_

 

 

“Aye, but did you go to your mother for every little scraped knee you earned while playing at the Rock?”

 

 

“No,” admitted Cersei with a slight laugh.

 

 

I jumped on that admission, “And yet, Joffrey takes a tumble in the practice yard, scratches up his hands—not even drawing blood—and he cries for you as though he’d been seriously mangled in a melee the way you’d have heard him wail. Why do you think he does that?”

 

 

She answered simply, “Because he wants to be held and comforted by his mother.”

 

 

I shook my head and said, “Because you let him.”

 

 

“Excuse me?” she returned her cup being set on the stone bench next to her.

 

 

“Joffrey screams and makes such a large fuss over scrapes that you yourself wouldn’t have, because you indulge him. Not that I blame you. Since his father fails to spend enough time with him, he most likely feels he needs more affection. What boy doesn’t wonder why father won’t show what he feels like his mother plainly does? And so he seeks out more affection to breech that gap, which you are eager and willing to give in abundance, and thus you indulge him to the point of excess. Which in turn teaches Joffrey to cry and make a larger fuss over what shouldn’t be as much of an issue. And that his how his behavior has been informed by your nurturing.”

 

 

She surmised “And so it comes back to Robert being the one to blame. And Harbert to blame for Robert. And Old Lord Lyonel for Harbert.”

 

 

“Must there be blame assigned to someone? We are all responsible for our own actions, to be sure, but simply tracing back the series of past actions to explain the present only lets us be ruled by them. Why can’t… you’ll likely think me foolish, but why can’t we accept that the past has brought us where we are, and attempt to strive to do better moving forward?”

 

 

_Conversations like this always end in me getting philosophical, I should have abstained…_

 

 

“You give me a lot to think on… Jon,” admitted Cersei as she stood. She came rather close to me in that moment.

 

 

“Just like seeing you at this age… makes me reconsider a lot of what I thought about you…” she said almost huskily and uncomfortably close. I worried for a moment that she might try to do more, but thankfully the moment passed as she took the flagon from my grip and then turned to pick her wine cup back up and finish it as she then walked away.

 

 

_Seven Hells… Robert offers me a Reformation and Cersei shows… well, signs of reformation regarding parenting. This is… this isn’t what I signed up for._

 

 

“We’re doomed…” said a boy’s voice not far from where I stood. Curious as to who had said as much, I followed the voice.

 

 

“Now, my little maester, don’t say that, just because you’re a lad again, don’t mean much of anything.” I recognized the northern accent of the girl with the boy as Young Nan.

 

 

“Don’t you know anything? Or were you just a show watcher?” bemoaned the boy, this time he was much closer.

 

 

Nan asked, “Show watcher? What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

 

“You don’t have to play dumb with me anymore. Catfish isn’t here right now. I’m from the other world as well. Somehow, we got sucked into the story.”

 

 

“Part of a story, you say? So you’ve heard my tale of all us living in the eye of a tall blue-eyed giant,” laughed Nan.

 

 

I turned a corner and came upon them by a fountain with a dragon shooting water from its mouth instead of fire.

 

 

“Not all of us who got younger are from the real world,” I said, deducing I’d come across yet another self-insert. Hopefully something of Maester Aemon was still in there, like Jon Arryn was with me.

 

 

“Milord,” said Nan with a small curtsey as I appeared. How she managed to do so without dropping her charge who was now asleep in her arms, I didn’t now.

 

 

The young boy turned his head in surprise and then frowned slightly.

 

 

“I don’t think so. It wouldn’t make any logical sense to have some of them and not all of them be from our world.”

 

 

Young Nan looked between the two of us as though we were off our rockers. Yeah, she either was a very convincing actress or she was just Old Nan made young again. Attempting to hide my smirk, I explained, “Abandon all hope of logic or common sense… we’re in a satire.”

 

 

“Sounds more like a cop out to me,” grumbled young Aemon, who then turned and looked at the fountain.

 

 

“Nan, could you go and tell Lady Catelyn that I’ll be along in a few moments?” I asked, eager to speak to this new self-insert alone for a few moments.

 

 

Thankful for the excuse to leave, she curtsied and hurried out of the smaller garden with a “Yes, milord.”

 

 

“You were saying we were doomed?” I asked as I approached Aemon and the fountain.

 

 

“Aye, this entire fucking world is doomed,” stated Aemon rather grimly.

 

 

“I have been working to eliminate the War of the Five Kings,” though I was likely about to replace it with a religious war of some kind, “and as for your kin across the sea…”

 

 

He admitted, “Aemon wants to go to them… but it’s only because Viserys is alive that I haven’t.”

 

 

_Thank the gods for the small things. May Viserys live long in this timeline.  
_

 

 

“But you were saying we were doomed?” I asked.

 

 

Aemon turned and looked at me, he was thin, extremely thin for a boy of three and ten. He then said, “I regained my eyesight in Winterfell. I had thought that when I’d awoken in this life that I’d be doomed to die in a decade or so, and do so a blind old man. It wasn’t until my eyesight returned to me that I thought I might have the chance of actually living my life… and then I saw him.

 

 

“Saw who?” I asked.

 

 

Aemon was rueful as he spoke. “Jon Snow. I was eager to try and see if having Aemon be blind might have been a way to ensure… well, a trick by Martin to try and sure up that Aemon didn’t let the cat out of the bag about Jon’s parents too early. So I made up some excuse to travel to Winterfell to Mormont. And in a way, I was right… just not the way that I thought.”

 

 

“Go on…” I urged, when it seemed Aemon was more interested in staring at his own reflection than telling his dark secret.

 

 

“Jon’s not got a drop of Targaryen blood in him. I’ve thought through every Targaryen family member I’ve known in my life and there’s no resemblance in the slightest. His eyes are a dark grey, not the dark purple that looks grey everyone always assumes in fan fiction.”

 

 

“Does that color even exist? Or are fan fiction authors that desperate to give Jon something of Rhaegar’s that they pull that kind of things out of their ass?” I questioned.

 

 

Aemon glared at me and continued, “He is Eddard in miniature to be sure in looks, appearance, and even behavior—though mayhaps slightly more brooding given how the Catfish treats him.”

 

 

“Catfish?” I questioned. Unfamiliar with the term.

 

 

Aemon gave a slight smirk and said, “It’s what she is… besides, she frowns like one.”

 

 

I simply nodded my head at that one.

 

 

Aemon continued with some difficulty, “Instead… Jon reminded me… gods help me… Jon reminded me of my Uncle Dagon, who was Lord of Starfall. It was only in the slightest regard truth be told, but the more I looked at him, the more I could not fail to see it…especially as he was in the practice yard. Gods be good, he fights like a Dayne.”

 

 

_Huh, interesting. I don’t think any fan fiction author’s tried that pairing yet._

 

 

“And why should that be upsetting?”

 

 

Aemon looked at me as though I were crazed to even question such things. “That means he can’t be the Prince who’s Promised, Azor Ahai, the Last Hero, or whatever you want to call him! Besides how could it be possible? It’s not like Lyanna Stark and Ashara Dayne could both be his parents.”

 

 

I nearly laughed. I was used to seeing Jon have many different parents in speculation theories, all the while I had assumed that Lyanna was his mother in all actuality. It was just the father I rotated between with regards to it either being Rhaegar, Arthur, or even Benjen. Martin had shown he wasn’t above suggesting Starkcest, after all and we have no idea where Benjen was until Ned showed up at Winterfell in mid-to-late 282… and given how GRRM plays fast and loose with timelines to everyone’s hair pulling, it wouldn’t surprise me in the least if the timeline everyone thought was true turned out in a future book to be overturned by some unnamed event buggering everything up. Still the potentials were worth exploring and I did so in my own writings as reading Jon Snow is Prince Rhaegar’s secret child gets rather boring and predictable as a revelation scene after the twelve hundredth time it’s been revealed in fan fiction. Gods help Martin when he finally does it, if he does it. The scene had been done to death, and anything to spark freshness into fan writers’ stories was welcomed in my book, even if the parentage of Jon wasn’t as in question as it might first appear. And if Aemon was right, then this was one of the ones I had yet to explore in my own writing, lending credit to my own authorship to my current torture.

 

 

"Azor Ahai is a prophesy from Asshai, why anyone would think it mattered to Westeros, I do not know. Additionally, the Prince who was Promised is most certainly Dany, and even so she being that doesn't mean she's also Azor Ahai as well, only Melisandre conflated those two ideas. And last I checked, the Last Hero wasn't a prophesy in the first place." I responded.

 

 

Aemon huffed and turned away to hear all that.

 

 

_Fine, believe what you will._

 

 

Trying hard not to smirk I suggested, “And as for Jon... you forget that there was one Dayne who was near his mother all that time.”

 

 

“He swore a vow!” answered Aemon quickly enough.

 

 

“You did read Ser Arys’ point of view chapter, right?” I questioned.

 

 

“Why would Ned pretend Jon was his son then? Hell, why would the Kingsguard remain at the Tower if that was so?”

 

 

“Did Lyanna have time to tell him? Did Ned just assume that since Rhaegar supposedly took Lyanna that he therefore was Jon’s father? Was it important to keep Ser Gerold Hightower separated from Aerys for whatever Rhaegar’s plans were and so a mummer’s farce was concocted? And if she did tell Ned… what better way to fulfill his sister’s promise? After all, if he was known as Arthur’s son, wouldn’t the Daynes want to take him in? And as for Robert, he would have been angry no matter who had a child with Lyanna, just as long as it wasn’t him. Truth be told all we have to go on is that he reminds you of your Uncle Dagon Dayne, and not a Targaryen. And Targaryens since your generation have had Dayne blood, so the truth is—who knows if Rhaegar is his father or if it is Arthur in this case. And who knows if Ned or Arthur knew the truth or simply assumed it. It wouldn't be the first time in a Martin story that the truth was assumed by most people turns out to have problems with it on further glance.”

 

 

Young Aemon remained silent for a second, as though merely calling into question the accepted theory had given him much to ponder. Eventually he landed on, “Howland Reed would know.”

 

 

“Or all he may know is what Ned knew, which may or may not be the truth. In any case, I wish you luck on finding him and Greywater Watch on your return North to the Wall.” I said and turned to depart.

 

 

“Didn’t you wish to know why I came south, Lord Arryn?” asked Young Aemon in a rather sickly sweet manner after I had taken a few steps.

 

 

I turned and answered, “Yes, I did, but I figured it could wait until we were in a less public space.”

 

 

“It was because of this little one,” I heard a voice say from behind me, and I turned to see Young Nan holding her charge, who was now awake and rather fussy. And when I blinked seemed to shift slightly in Nan’s arms, the moonstone glowing brightly as the sunlight hit it.

 

 

And then the shift finalized as I saw a sickly babe with pale white hair, pale skin, and a gigantic red blotch which covered nearly half his face. He shifted back the next moment, still rather fussy as the moonstone lessened its glow.

 

 

_Seven Hells…_


	9. Truth & Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jocelyn begins to comprehend that something is off about Jon, something he hasn't told her.

**_Chapter 9: Truth & Consequences_ **

**JOCELYN**

 

To be quite honest, having the opportunity to live her life again from practically the start of her womanhood all over again was a prospect which Jocelyn found rather tedious. She had already had children and grandchildren enough to satisfy her mother’s and brother’s ambitions for House Stark and spread their influence enough in the Vale that the old rivalry between the two Kingdoms was long since a finished chapter for the history books. She had had her great accomplishments and entered her dotage having done her duty thus. All that was left to look forward to was a quiet death in her bed. Why now should she be revived again and made young enough to be her own grandson’s daughter? Further still, of all the aged men that the Gods or whatever had done this to her, why had it have to have been Jon Arryn who shared this fate with her? And why in all the Seven Hells couldn't she stop thinking of him when the last thing she had wanted to do the first time they'd been these ages was to be near him.

 

_The gods have a cruel sense of humor._

 

Jocelyn was not looking where she was going as she came to an intersection of paths in the garden, and unexpectedly bumped into a woman red of hair and pale skinned as any Andal. It took her but a moment to recognize the sigil embroidered upon her surcoat as that of her own birth house.

 

_So this is Little Ned’s wife? Well, she is taller than most Starks tend to be, hopefully the children will inherit that from her, if nothing else._

 

“Forgive me, Lady Stark, I was not watching where I was walking.”

 

“Lady… Royce?” asked the red-haired beauty, no doubt seeing the bulleted wolf on her broach, and Jocelyn acknowledged as such with a nod of her head that might have suited a Septa acknowledging the work of her charge, than a girl in the midst of her first bloom speaking a woman in full flower of her second. The awkwardness of that interaction did not go unnoticed by Lady Stark, but she simply responded with a strained smile and asked if she might join Jocelyn on her walk. The understanding that they would talk went unspoken.

 

“It is a glorious gift that the gods have given you my lady.”

 

Jocelyn felt conflicted about the address of title. On the one hand she admired her great-nephew’s wife’s attention to etiquette, on the other, the formality seemed to strike her as almost unnecessary to her youthened sensibilities.

 

“Lady Royce—”

 

“We are kinswomen, Lady Stark, call me Jocelyn.”

 

A visible sigh of relief stretched across Lady Stark’s face, and she said, “And me, Catelyn. Shall we walk together?”

 

Jocelyn let Catelyn lead the way as they took a path down the garden that neither had been walking past a beautiful collection of flowering vines and shrubs as their feet trod the small stone pebble path.

 

“When I heard that you were among the gods’ chosen, I meant to write to you and invite you to Winterfell, but then the Gods gave me three of their chosen to mind.”

 

“I would love to see the walls of Winterfell once again and visit Ned’s grave in the crypts.”

 

“Ned? Oh… you mean—"

 

“I meant my little brother, Edwyle. Your husband I used to call Little Ned when he was fostered in the Vale. And there’s yet another Ned to consider, a grandson of mine, who does some trade business in Gulltown for his cousin, Lord Yohn Royce.”

 

“I thought you only had daughters?”

 

“My son died young, but he did live long enough to give me grandsons.”

 

At this, Lady Stark fell silent for a short moment, before using the silence as excuse to change the subject.

 

“I have a question concerning the traditions of House Stark. Particularly those surrounding its bastards. You are old enough to remember the last one.”

 

Jocelyn bristled at dear Great Uncle Lonny being referred to as “the last one”, but unfortunately it was a Southron attitude she’d become all too used to encountering—especially in the Vale. Jocelyn took a deep breath and did her best to not snap back at the new she-wolf looking to better the chances of her pups before any others.

 

_The more things change..._

 

“And just what are you curious about?”

 

Catelyn was quick to ask, “Were they all raised at Winterfell?”

 

Jocelyn decided to drag out her answer, choosing to look off the path and take notice of a particularly lovely yellow flower in the process of bursting from its bud. As she stroked the loosening bud, Jocelyn said, “That I cannot say.” It was truth enough, if not the entire truth. She’d been born when Great Uncle Lonny was a man of fifty namedays, she assumed he’d been raised at Winterfell, but then he might not have. Deciding to add some context, Jocelyn turned back to face Catelyn and added, “To be sure, the Snows of Winterfell have always held better relations with their Stark kin than the bastards of the south do their trueborn brothers. One might even say that the Snows are the ones who help keep their Stark brothers honorable. At least, that’s what Great Uncle Lonny always said.”

 

“The Snows keep their Stark brothers honorable?”

 

“There are some things that a Lord Stark cannot be seen to do, and yet needs to be done if peace and right rule are to be kept in the North. Lonny always said the Snows were the ones who got their hands dirty. They did what their Stark brothers could not do, to keep them honorable. Trouble always befell House Stark whenever there was a lack of a Snow to aid his brother.”

 

Catelyn didn’t let it go at that. “Of course, Lonnel could have overstated his case to you. You were but a child at the time.”

 

“He didn’t. I don’t know how much you know of the history of Winterfell—”

 

“As soon as I was betrothed to Brandon, I learned everything I could of it.”

 

_At least all that the maesters wrote down. The truth is an entirely different beast._

 

“Then you’ll know that when I was a very young child, that my father and his brothers all died fighting a wildling invasion.”

 

_That Uncle Artos instigated… thank the gods that’s forgotten._

 

“Aye, your father died leaving your brother almost nine moons to grow in Melantha’s womb, at least so said the maester in his record.”

 

_Ahh, that old rumor, Cousin Sansa’s efforts to discredit Ned live on, in code._

 

“It was exactly so. And I perfectly recall those months of uncertainty when no one knew whether my brother would be a boy or yet another girl. There’s never been a Lady Stark, you see. The Stark line has passed to the heirs male of the female line of course, more than once, but Winterfell has never been ruled by a woman alone in her own right, and the North wasn’t about to change that tradition to favor me. Or if it was, some thought it ought to go to a Lady Stark with some… experience.”

 

_Thankfully old cousin Sansa’s lengthy experience was enough to make it so her death wasn’t suspicious… Lonny was careful with her._

 

“My mother was engaged in a duel of she-wolves—aunts, cousins, and even my own grandmother—all had been Ladies Stark at some point or other, and all wished for my mother to miscarry so that their preferred choice of Stark would inherit. Some tried to get at her by wooing my favor.”  
  
_Dear sweet stupid cousin Serena._

 

“Others ignored me in favor of giving my mother poisoned gifts.”

 

_Aunt Lyarsa… may she rot in the seven hells._

 

“And others simply wished us dead altogether so they could marry my addle-brained Uncle Errold and rule through him and whatever babe they could pass as his.”

 

_Aunt Arya had to settle for wild Uncle Rodrik when Errold died before the wedding. Thank the gods Rodrik only gave her daughters._

 

“Through it all, Great Uncle Lonny defended my mother and I until and after my brother was born as Lord Stark. He was the kindest, fiercest, and most loyal man I’ve ever known in my life. That he was a Snow only meant that he could keep those greedy she-wolves at bay in ways my mother couldn’t. I pray that your son should never have such need, but if he does, may his Snow brother be just as good a man as Lonny was.”

 

_That ought to settle that._

 

Catelyn was quiet for a time, no doubt reflecting on what Jocelyn had given her to think on.

 

“Have you given thought as to what you should do with your second life the gods have given you?”

 

_And the trout jumps up a different tributary._

 

“If you are asking whether I intend to marry again or not, I am.”

 

“And do you know who it is… that is, is there someone that your…”

 

_Of course, she’d think I wouldn’t be the one to choose._

 

“I am the one to choose my next husband, Catelyn. I have no parents to please, and I’d join a septry before I’d allow my fool grandson to pick one for me.”

 

“I envy your freedom of choice.”

 

_So you’d think, but Jon has truly cornered me on this point, godsdamn him._

 

Beginning to grow tired of Catelyn’s company, and wondering if any of the ninnies who called themselves “ladies” were about the garden for a change in company, Jocelyn began, “If there’s nothing else—”

 

But it was then that a shout was hear deeper in the gardens.

 

“FUCK!”

 

“That sounded like Jon.”

 

Meeting Catelyn’s eye, we both then hurried towards where the sound of my soon-to-be intended’s voice had emanated from. We found him by a fountain with the collection of northern chosen that had come south with Catelyn. The dark haired babe was suckling rather quietly at Nan’s breasts—Gods, Nan looked as young as Jocelyn remembered her being when she was a little girl—and the young maester was trying to pry Jon up from his sitting position where he sat staring wide-eyed into space at nothing, muttering things that made no sense.

 

“Westeros is screwed…” was about all that Jocelyn could make out of Jon as she bent down to stir him from his current stupor.

 

“What caused this?” Catelyn asked the boy maester.

 

“h—He saw the babe and just freaked out.”

 

Jocelyn suggested with a quick glance to the inconspicuous bushes, “We should move him back to the Tower of the Hand. It would be unseemly to let the Hand of the King be seen like this.”

 

Jon Arryn, you are not to lose your mind now. Godsdamnit, if I have to battle the Stranger himself for your sanity, I’ll do it. I am not going to face Robert alone on letting him down.

 

Aemon was sent to find Jon’s squire and see the rooms prepared, while Catelyn and Jocelyn both assisted Jon to his feet and towards the exit of the garden. When they arrived at the chambers, young Harbert was but half a flight behind them, and half out of breath from running so quickly.

 

“What’s… wrong with him?” asked Harbert.

 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Fetch me some lavender, valerian, and wine, and be quick about it,” Jocelyn assured Harbert. The man turned boy groaned and hurried down the stairs he’d just climbed as Jocelyn and Catelyn brought Jon into his chambers and deposited upon his bed. Jon’s servants were thankfully not layabouts and were assisting in dealing with helping to confine the shocked and muttering Jon in no time. Catelyn said she would go and check upon her nephew and thankfully left not long thereafter. Harbert then returned with the requested ingredients, completely winded at this point, with the servants having brought a mortar and pestle. Jocelyn set to work at crushing the lavender and valerian into a fine powder and then added it to a glass of wine.

 

“Hold it mouth open,” Jocelyn commanded the servants, and with some difficulty, she managed to pour the wine down Jon’s throat with some spilling on his front in the struggle. Jocelyn then forcibly closed his mouth shut, narrowly missing his bite on her own fingers, to keep him from spitting it out. When he had at last swallowed, he looked wild-eyed at her before his eyes began to grow unfocused and the eyelids droop as the effects of the powder aided by the wine began to take effect. Soon Jon was silent and on the edge of sleep.

 

“Will he be all right?” asked Harbert tentatively once Jon was at ease.

 

“Yes.”

 

_I pray to the gods he is, or else I am doomed to deal with the fat stag on my own._

 

“He better, or else I’ll kill him myself.”

 

Hearing a boy of one and ten say such was far different than hearing a man grown and friend say such a thing, and Jocelyn had to remind herself that the young squire standing next to her in that moment was in the same boat as she with regards to being one of the Gods’ chosen. She’d nearly forgotten it in all the hustle of the moment.

 

“What problem do you face if he dies?”

 

“Robert’s threatened to send me to my mother’s family, the treacherous dogs, until I’m a man grown.”

 

Despite herself, Jocelyn couldn’t help but rebuke the young buck, “Language!”

 

The boy looked at her like a man her own age might in response to such a rebuke. “I spent my first childhood listening to my Septa. I don’t give a fuck this time. Besides, Silveraxe well-earned it in the late rebellion. He would hold me as an excuse to get concessions of out Robert.”

 

“Still, at least hold your tongue in front of the other boys who still should listen to their Septas.”

 

“I don’t see them around now, do you?”

 

Wishing to change the subject, Jocelyn inquired if there were any plans on some of these proposed canals that could be looked at. Harbert pointed her in the direction of Jon’s desk, where she found the desk utterly disorganized at first glance, though crude piles were upon further inspection divided into subject matters, the largest of which were copies of letters sent out to various lords along the proposed canal route, along with maps and orders for surveys of the elevation of the lands to be done, and so forth. Her Ned knew some merchants who might be interested in this knowledge so as to know where to shift their investments in the coming years, but Jocelyn was more curious at the ambitious scope of the project—which wasn’t the only one planned. It seemed Jon had designs to contact the Manderlys and ask if they might be able to work with the Starks and the Reeds to work on building a canal across the Neck in the next few decades. Such a project was on the magnitude of Brandon the Builder! Time passed unnoticed as Jocelyn shifted through all the plans and notes, seeming to start and stop at random intervals on different scrolls.

 

“Amazing, aren’t they?” asked Harbert, who had for lack of anything else to do, wandered over to peer over her shoulder.

 

“No wonder he’s had a fit, he’s overtaxed his mind with all these plans. I’ve heard of taking a second chance for all it’s worth, but this… this is taking things a bit far.”

 

_To say the least._

 

“I never knew that Jon had it in him to do this. He was always so concerned with getting an heir, or training for battles that I don’t think he ever had time to consider how else to secure his legacy. Seven hells, I never thought that much of it either.”

 

“It was Rowena who took up most of his time and attention.”

 

“Aye, she had him by the balls over half his life.”

 

Despite herself, Jocelyn found herself smirking at Harbert’s remark.

 

It was then a knock was heard at the door. Harbert and Jocelyn looked at one another before one of Jon’s servants entered and announced, “Begging your pardon m’lady, but Lord Varys is outside inquiring about Lord Jon’s health. What am I to tell him?”

 

Jocelyn looked over to see Jon on his side, lightly snoring with a little drool escaping his mouth. She answered honestly, “That he is resting and that is all.”

“Tell the cockless bastard to come back later!”

 

Jocelyn resisted shooting Harbert a glance as the servant curtsied and departed the room.

 

“What was that about?”

 

“Varys? He’s the Lord of Whispers. Jon blocked off all the hidden entrances into this tower so Varys likely has to come in person if he wants to discover what’s wrong with Jon.”

 

“He blocked off _all_ the hidden entrances?!”

 

“Aye, after an assassin tried killing him shortly after he’d started getting younger. The bloody bastard came from behind the fireplace, and that led to all sorts of hidden passages. Jon had them all walled off as soon as he found them.”

 

Jon’s been busier than I thought. And far more cautious. This isn’t the young hotblooded mooncalf I remember from my time at the Eyrie. He’s different…

 

Just then Jon stopped snoring, bringing both Harbert and Jocelyn’s attentions to his bed, as he opened his eyes and groggily sat himself up.

 

“Good morrow, Jonny” teased Harbert with a laugh. To which response the drool stained pillow was thrown in his direction, barely reaching the boy.

 

“I feel nauseous.”

 

“That’s a side-effect of the valerion root,” said Jocelyn. At which point Jon took a doubletake and seemed to notice her.

 

“What are you doing in my solar, unaccompanied?!”

“Would you rather your goodsister have tended to you while I nursed to my reputation? I mean, even at this age I was already married and lost my maidenhead.”

 

Jon was not in the mood to argue, and simply asked, “What happened?”

 

“I was wondering if you could enlighten us to that. Apparently the young maester said you looked at that babe Nan brought with her when you went completely addled brained. Thankfully, I recalled a remedy Nan’s mother used to make to keep my Uncle Errold calm and forced it down your throat.”

 

Jon then went wide-eyed once again, saying “Bloodraven.” Thankfully another conniption did not overtake him in that moment.

 

“What about that dead bastard?” asked Harbert.

 

“He’s not dead.”

 

Jocelyn dismissed this outright. “Nonsense, I’ve heard of the rare person living to near a century, but over a century? Impossible!”

 

“If anyone could have done it, Lord Bloodraven would have found the way. He’s the babe that Old Nan brought.”

 

“Jon, I think you might need your eyes looked at. The babe was not an albino, nor did he have a birthmark upon his face,” said Jocelyn.

 

“The moonstone around his neck casts a glamor to make him appear less conspicuous.”

 

Jocelyn was yet to be convinced. Magic, true magic, was gone from the world. And yet… she’d become young at the blessings of the Gods. Was it truly gone? Mayhaps Lord Bloodraven had lived this long, even so, if her cousin had managed to survive and had been as much of a sorcerer as was rumored then the Gods help them when he grew to be a man again.

 

“I did think it odd that a babe should wear such a necklace and not teeth at the stone,” remarked Harbert thoughtfully.

 

“All right, mayhaps my cousin is young again, why should that-"

 

“We already have one greenseer among us, with two… the Faith will turn into the bloody Spanish Inquisition, and we’ll have a Counter-Reformation before we can get a Renaissance!” exclaimed Jon, who not a moment later seemed to have regretted saying anything. Why, Jocelyn couldn’t understand as half of what he said made absolutely no sense to her. Spanish Inquisition? Counter-Reformation? Renaissance. What utter nonsense was this?

 

“What’s the Spanish Inquisition?” asked Harbert, finally sounding for once the one and ten boy he appeared.

 

“Think the Faith Militant, only far more powerful.”

 

_Now that was cause for concern._

 

“Jon, I won’t pretend to understand all of what you just said, but what did you mean by there being two greenseers?” she asked.

 

“For every thousand skinchangers born to man, a greenseer is born among mankind. Bloodraven is one of them. That’s why he was called a sorcerer.”

 

She asked, “I’ll accept that you’re telling the truth, but what I don’t understand is how would you know that.”

 

Harbert added, “Yeah, and how do you know there’s two greenseers?”

 

_This had better be good, or gods help me, I’m on the first boat back to the Vale and begging for Nestor to betroth me._

 

“Harbert, my friend and Jocelyn, since we’re agreed that we should wed, there’s something I need tell you two that I know you’re both unlikely to believe, but keep in mind it is the truth. I’m not just Jon anymore.”


End file.
